


The Folly of Wayward Saints

by gimmefire, Tasyfa



Series: Saints Universe [2]
Category: Green Day, Metallica
Genre: Angst, Bloodplay, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-26
Updated: 2006-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-05 01:08:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 37,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gimmefire/pseuds/gimmefire, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tasyfa/pseuds/Tasyfa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The unnamed feeling, takes me away...</i> Three years since that motel room. Three years of personal and professional change, of albums, tours, accolades and acclaim, of pain, growth and reforged relationships. Three years is a long time. But, with Green Day and Metallica both attending a Hollywood afterparty, the heavy metal drummer and punk rock frontman still can't seem to keep away from each other...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Line That Divides Me

Whoever had said that performing a single song at an awards show wasn't enough to get you high obviously hadn't been doing it right. Because done _right_ , one song was, indeed, enough to send you on an adrenaline rush that could last hours, without the accompanying exhaustion that performing a full concert produced.  
  
Billie Joe strode into the ballroom with his bandmates, the glittering space already jam-packed with musicians and celebrities. He snagged a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and sipped at it, checking out the over-the-top decorating. Fuckin' afterparties. He was wound up and wired for sound, and he felt like…well.  
  
He felt like being a shit-disturber.  
  
Eyes scanning the crowd, he asked, "Who's supposed to be here, anyway?" Who could he piss off?  
  
He grinned as Tré began to list off names. Billie could always count on him to know all the party details. "Let's see…Audioslave, Ashlee Simpson, Kanye West, Destiny's Child, Velvet Revolver, Metallica…"  
  
 _Metallica._ The rest of Tré's litany went unheard in the sparking memory of one night of brutal passion that had left a permanent impression. Literally: he had a small scar at the base of his throat where teeth had ripped into his skin. He suppressed the urge to rub at it, conscious that Mike was right beside him.  
  
Billie hadn't spoken to Lars since that morning a couple of years ago. Instead of everything going to hell, both bands had rallied and produced new albums. Sure, _St. Anger_ hadn't been the critical and cultural success that _American Idiot_ was, but there was also that damn documentary.  
  
He'd never seen it; had made disparaging remarks about it in fact, some of which had been born of an indefinable hurt at the idea that millions of people had watched Lars be that vulnerable. In the wake of that intimate, filmed process, and James's status as a recovering alcoholic, Billie could only assume that the two had mended their fences on a personal level as well. Much as he and Mike had.  
  
He shook off the oddness that thinking about _Some Kind of Monster_ usually brought and focussed on the here and now. Where he was in the same room as Lars Ulrich for the first time since they'd fucked.  
  
A smirk appeared and he grabbed another glass of champagne. _Guess I know who I want to piss off._  
  
Lars could tell what the smug looking motherfucker sauntering past him was going to say even before he'd said it. The wide grin, the amused eyes, oh shit, here comes the joke of the millenium...  
  
"Hey, man, better be careful, it's some nice hardwood flooring in here. Watch that glass."  
  
"Fuck you, fuck you very much," the drummer replied with a wide smile.  
  
Lars was in a good mood. A damn good mood. The last few years had been long, gruelling, emotional, exhausting ones. Spanning from looking blearily at the artwork for the new album, half asleep and in his dressing gown, to tonight. The last awards show Metallica had been signed up for this year. No accolades this time, just attendance, and that was fine. _St. Anger_ , in comparison to _The Black Album_ , had been a failure. Anything compared to _The Black Album_ would be considered a failure, really, but neither Lars nor his bandmates really cared about that. _St. Anger_ , _Some Kind of Monster_ and everything surrounding them, had been necessary. Absolutely necessary. Without them, he wouldn't be standing here. As fucking painful and sickening and tiring and horrible the leadup and process of making them had been, the payoff, the way they were now, made it all worth it. There was something kinda cosmic in how much pain you had to go through in order to become so much closer – embracing that darkness to get into the light.  
  
Whoa, a little residual Phil psychobabble bullshit, there. Better watch that.  
  
But if one more motherfucker made a joke about dropping his champagne glass – as he'd done only once in recent memory, the only difference being that it had been in an art gallery, it had been filmed and had been seared permanently in the annals of history thanks to _Some Kind of Monster_ – he was likely to get a little unfriendly.  
  
Between drawing his hand through long-ish brown hair, tapping out an indeterminable rhythm against his leg, discussing up-and-coming bands with Chris Cornell and Duff McKagan and standing a little closer to James than was probably wise, Lars was focussed on the preceding awards show. More specifically, who had performed on the preceding awards show.  
  
Even more specifically, the spiky little black-and-red-clad dynamo that had been exploding all over the stage, guitar hung low and lined hazel eyes bright and fiery. Fuckin' world in their sights.  
  
Sliding down low in his seat, Lars hadn't taken his eyes off Billie as the frontman had leapt around the stage like a man half his age, watched him jerk and spasm, shout and scream, pour all his passion and energy into that one song. Despite the fact that, by now, Lars and James had fixed themselves and each other – many times over, he smirked inwardly – the memory of that one bizarre, ferocious, needful night in a motel in San Francisco sprung fresh into his mind.  
  
Watching this electric performance forced Lars to cross his legs.  
  
So, why wasn't he now scouring this ballroom for Billie? Well, to put it bluntly, he couldn't be bothered. Right then, he was fine where he was, by James, brushing his hip against the other man's arm occasionally as he rocked from side to side, sipping his champagne and thinking bad thoughts about a black wrapped waist and tauntingly low-slung pants.  
  
Besides, just because he didn't actively go looking for the frontman didn't mean he wouldn't accidentally bump into him on the way to the bathroom…  
  
Billie's smirk deepened as his impulse to make waves met with an idea. Why focus on one foul-tempered man from one night in the past when there was an entire room full of plastic idiots whose little minds he could fuck with? He turned his head to look at Mike, locking gazes with that crystalline tranquility. He reached out and tugged playfully at the dangling earring, and then curled his hand around the back of Mike's neck, pulling him in for a brief kiss.  
  
As he broke away, Billie could see awareness and acknowledgement in Mike's eyes and he heard Tré giggling.  
  
"Somebody's in a mo-od," Tré chanted in a singsong voice. "Gonna give me some sugar too, Bill?"  
  
"Always, Cool." He screwed up his face as his drummer planted a wet kiss on his lips, wiping at his mouth after. "Jesus, learn to swallow."  
  
The three of them laughed, comfortable like this and closer than ever. If there was a hint of resignation hidden in the happiness, Billie Joe didn't see it, or wouldn't, perhaps. And at the moment, he had plans other than psychoanalysing interpersonal dynamics, anyway.  
  
Namely, making a spectacle of himself.  
  
He started with a good friend. Dave Grohl could always be counted on to encourage insanity – and slip him the tongue, for that matter, irregardless of the fact that they were in public. He left Dave with a grin and bounced from group to group, stealing kisses from men and women indiscriminately. Seeing the poorly concealed shock in places and even disgust after some of the more enthusiastic kisses from other men was like taking a hit.  
  
Billie enjoyed the attention; good, bad, all of it. He liked forcing people to confront things, especially when it stretched narrow thought paths. It was why Green Day had taken Pansy Division on tour way back when, and they'd never stopped pushing. Their latest album exemplified that inclination.  
  
Although _American Idiot_ was a lot less gender-bending than Billie's current behaviour.  
  
Having lost his drink a good while ago, he was about to go looking for another when he backed into someone and quickly turned around. "Sorry about that. You're a tall fucker," he blurted, looking way too far up after being confronted with a solid chest. Recognition hit in a soundless burst of surprise and he caught a glimpse of familiar green out of the corner of his eye.  
  
The devil on Billie's shoulder pulled an _Alice in Wonderland_ act, swelling to life size and melding with his skin.  
  
Billie offered the tall man a dazzling smile and made a beckoning gesture. "James Hetfield, as I live and breathe. Bend down a little, dude."  
  
Puzzled amusement shining in blue eyes, he complied, and as soon as he was in reach Billie's hands shot up and grabbed his face, as he rose up on his toes and gave James a kiss.  
  
A swift, dry peck with closed lips, to be sure, but a kiss nonetheless, and inwardly he breathed a sigh of relief that the big man still looked amused when he stepped back, because it looked like it wouldn't take a lot of effort for James to break him in half.  
  
Billie stuck out his hand with another bright smile. "Billie Joe Armstrong, Green Day. Metallica's songs were some of the first that I learned to play on the guitar."  
  
He kept his eyes on James. It flashed across his mind to be glad he'd changed his clothes: the collarless shirt under the tailored black leather jacket meant that there was no convenient tie to choke him with, although he suspected the fiery drummer would just as soon do it with his bare hands if he got the chance.  
  
Billie's smile widened. Oh, well. He didn't care. He was on top of the world tonight and nothing was going to bring him down.  
  
Lars's eyebrows raised and he laughed, the sound coming out as a high pitched snort.  
  
"Quite a greeting," James said after a long surprised moment. He grasped Billie's extended hand tightly and shook it with all the strength of the Mighty Het. "And, uh, thanks about the guitar thing, man, yeah. Cool."  
  
Lars's eyes flicked from their clasped hands to their locked eyes. James Hetfield, in public, even of late, Did Not Do That Sort Of Thing. Not even for Lars. The closest he'd ever come was a strong arm hooking round the drummer's neck and a wet _swalk_ on his cheek at a red carpet thing a few months back. Lars, for once, had been totally thrown for a loop, almost choking on his gum, giggling like a Catholic schoolgirl for at least a minute or two and grinning for another two hours. He'd had to try fucking _hard_ not to one-up the frontman.  
  
Still, James was not one for public displays of affection with other men, even something as innocent as that. Or maybe he was slowly coming around, what with his massive transformation over the last few years. It'd be nice, Lars being the touchy grabby gropey kissy sonofabitch he was. Still, haughtiness flattened itself over the drummer's back.  
  
Sipping his champagne, he made a swift mental note as to exactly who was still watching – the rest of his band, couple of surprised partygoers…he caught Rob murmuring to Kirk, something like 'holy crap, that guy's way smaller than I thought'. Was he the only one bothered at all by that little display? Of course he was. Well, maybe not, but he was certainly the most bothered.  
  
Probably because he'd had sex with both participants and was now kinda jealous. Yeah, might be a factor.  
  
Drawing his hand through his hair again, effectively smoothing down his bristles, he leaned against James and pushed him a little to the side, forcing them to break eye contact and forging his own with the similarly vertically challenged man. His eyebrows forked in mock-outrage.  
  
"Hey, motherfucker, where's _my_ kiss?"  
  
Lars was an attention-seeker, mostly through shooting his mouth off, that much was known. He was also kind of a slut. He was also not one to be outdone. This…was probably not going to end prettily.  
  
Dipping behind Billie, he draped his arms around the frontman's shoulders, digging his nails in briefly before sweeping one hand down and grasping a good handful of crotch and squeezing hard. He grinned devilishly, chin resting on the shoulder before him and eyeing James. Who, though grinning wide, held more than a little flash of jealousy in those piercing blue eyes. Lars was _his_ , after all.  
  
He should know by now that this only ever served to goad the drummer.  
  
Pulling Billie tight against his chest, he moved his hand from crotch to pale jaw, turning that spiky head round and bringing their lips together. Lust rippled in his stomach at that familiar press, even more so when pouting lips parted and tongues darted into familiar warmth.  
  
 _Nah, definitely not gonna end prettily,_ Lars thought with an inward smirk.  
  
Everything in Billie heated up when the drummer pulled him back against his chest, but the total shock when he was fucking groped held him immobile for a few seconds. Long enough so that when his hand went down to remove Lars's from his groin, achingly conscious of where they were, Lars had just moved it himself. And kissed him. Senses reeling, Billie allowed himself thirty seconds to sink into the well-remembered feeling of those lips on his, tongues rubbing together lazily.  
  
And then he stepped forward and broke all physical contact, intensely grateful that his tight pants would conceal his definite erection. He didn't know what Lars was playing at here, but he'd seen the flash of jealousy in James's eyes and that told him that his assumptions had been correct: Lars and James had figured their shit out. Not to mention the fact that Mike was here and probably watching, because he wasn't overly fond of it when Billie went on this kind of rampage but he dealt with it graciously enough, and Billie didn't want to abuse that tolerance. Even if – _especially_ if – desire now swirled impatiently in his stomach.  
  
Knowing that, and knowing that only Lars would be aware of all the levels of significance, he half-turned and offered his hand to Lars exactly as he had to James. With the same brilliant smile and a lack of visible reaction. He might have let it all out the last time he'd seen this man, but Billie Joe was nothing if not a master at showing only what he wanted people to see.  
  
"Little friendlier than I was going for but all right. Hi." Before Lars could take his hand, Billie aimed that smile at the remaining two band members, who looked openly surprised at the entire display. "Anyone else? Or are you guys just blessed with a crazy drummer, too?"  
  
Lars grinned, taking Billie's hand and shaking it heartily, looking over and jerking his head at Kirk and Rob.  
  
"Well, boys, Billie here asked you a question…"  
  
He sidled back up to James, and Kirk held up his hands, chuckling. "No, I'm good, thanks – hey, though!"  
  
The guitarist shook Billie's hand warmly, beaming in that inimitable cheery Kirk way. Rob mirrored the gesture, albeit looking slightly more embarrassed about the display, a little blush tingeing his cheeks, grinning wide.  
  
While this was going on, James and Lars exchanged a look that spoke a hundred things, as was so beautifully typical of people who had known each other for as long as they had. Who had been intimate for as long as they had. James's slightly raised eyebrow, heavy-lidded ice blue eyes looking down with contradictory hints of disapproval and amusement. Lars's smug little smirk, glittering, smoky green eyes radiating with defiance and wicked heat.  
  
"Fucker," James murmured. Lars gave him a playful shove before looking over to Billie again, head tilted.  
  
"So what're you gonna do, make your way around the entire room like that? Guess I'll know where you are by the sound of people gagging…" he took another glass of champagne from a passing waiter, taking a few sips before continuing. "Or are you gonna stick around here with the people that actually matter at this fuckin' thing?"  
  
It was always kind of hard to tell if Lars was kidding or not, whether he truly was that arrogant. He never let on either way. So he just eyed Billie expectantly, lips pursing as he took a long few swigs from his glass.  
  
He couldn't help but shrug his shoulders at the tingle that danced down his spine, despite the fact that most of Billie's taste had been washed from his mouth. That kiss had brought back stunningly detailed memories of their night, seemingly a lifetime ago; sweat, blood, infinite darkness and some indefinable spark in the back of his mind. A spark that, even though he and James were more than fixed, was very much making itself known again.  
  
Looking over nonchalantly at the other side of the room but aware of Billie's eyes on him, he reached up and rubbed at the base of his throat, casting a sideways glance at the younger man.  
  
Genuinely pleased to meet the rest of the band, Billie shook hands with Kirk and Rob and then laughed at Lars's dig.  
  
"I've already made my way through most of the room, dude, and didn't hear any complaints. If kissing me makes you gag you've got only yourself to blame."  
  
He picked up another bubbling glass from the ever-present wait staff, having taken note that it seemed to be okay to drink around James, and waved a hand at the crowd. "I'd introduce you guys to my bandmates but they seem to have disappeared. There haven't been any fire alarms so I assume Tré found something interesting to do that doesn't involve pyro and dragged Mike along."  
  
Sipping at the champagne, Billie caught Lars's glance and accompanying gesture. Heat uncurled in his stomach at the blatant reminder, made all the stronger for knowing that Billie was the only one who knew that it wasn't a random itch but a deliberate hand placement. He fought to keep himself from echoing it and fingering the scar, a gesture of his own that had become absent-mindedly commonplace. As if he needed to remain aware at all times that his actions had consequences and touching skin altered by such violent passion grounded him.  
  
Recollection washed over him nonetheless of the moment he'd acquired that mark, bent backwards in a nameless bed, Lars thrusting inside him with punishing force – and that muttered wish that it would be seen, that had driven Billie past all restraint.  
  
Mike had seen it. All of it. It had started them back on the path to each other. Billie Joe's honesty had earned him another chance and they'd struggled through the long, painful process of reforging their relationship with help and support from Adrienne and Tré.  
  
They were good now – more than good, both personally and professionally. He'd found the music again and the three of them had created a new legacy together that had exceeded their wildest dreams. Everyone was happy.  
  
Except, here he was. Standing around at a stupid party talking to the one man he should avoid, particularly since James was there, too. Billie had no idea if the tall frontman knew anything about Lars's little adventure, although he figured that even if he did, he wouldn't know it had been with him. But that wicked, unexpected kiss right in front of Lars's lover had Billie curious about the two of them.  
  
It also had him aroused, skin prickling with the sensory memory of that mouth tasting, licking, biting down hard. The combination kept him there, laughing at some offhanded comment Kirk made and trying to keep anything but polite interest from showing in his eyes.  
  
He smiled at the group around him, thinking that shop talk might be the safest topic of conversation under the circumstances. Certainly more so than Billie's kissing abilities, because that just made him want to reach for Lars and do a proper job of kissing him. "We're finally done touring and taking a couple of months to catch up on all the fucking sleep we missed before we start farting around in the studio again. What're you all up to these days?"  
  
Lars sighed, halfway between being casual and fuckin' bored with small talk. His eyes continued to roam distractedly, taking in everything but the younger man.  
  
"Ah, y'know, winding down a fuckin' whirlwind couple years. The album's served its purpose, couple dates left here and there touring wise…" he swung his gaze back round to Billie, a wry smirk on his lips. "…and we're not in therapy anymore."  
  
He'd heard about the comments Billie had made on the documentary, seemingly he was the only member of his band that remembered them. Not to say that he wasn't offended or irritated by them, but he decided not to bring them up yet. Maybe later. When they weren't _quite_ so exposed.  
  
"Yeah, the black recliner is vacant," James added. "Next!" The Hetfield laugh boomed forth abruptly, totally drowning out his bandmates'. "Just gettin' ready to relax for a long fuckin' time. Close this almighty chapter."  
  
"Oh, and I got a divorce, too!" Lars said with a false brightness, holding up his ringless left hand. "So basically it's all been fun and games."  
  
Smiles faded a little at that, eyes found the floor. Except for Lars, naturally, who never did anything with grace. He wore everything like a fucking badge of honour.  
  
The divorce. Yeah. It had been horrible, obviously, he'd have been surprised if it had been anything but. Probably made worse by the emotional tornado that had snatched up his band for two plus years. Such changes like that, even if they were eventually for the better, are incredible tests on all relationships. And, apparently, it had been too much for Lars and Skylar. Had she found out about her husband and James? No. The entire relationship, she had remained in the dark. Lars didn't see much point in informing her now, it'd end up like a knife in her back. Had she found out about her husband and Billie? No. Nobody in Lars's circles knew about that. That was the way it was going to stay. So why the sudden breakdown?  
  
It hadn't been sudden. It had been a slow disintegration into nothing. It had been painful, it had been depressing, it had been hard. And it was the reason why Phil had come on tour with Metallica for a few weeks. For Lars and Lars alone.  
  
Now he had James. He had James and, though the frontman was still married, they were in probably the most content period in their relationship since those dizzying, far-off first days of it way back when the band first formed.  
  
Clearly, though, by the dull ache in his gut and the burn in his eyes, that wasn't all.  
  
The simple, stark fact that he was just now beginning to realise was, though he loved James, he _wanted_ Billie. In a hundred bad ways and stronger than he'd wanted anyone else in a long time.  
  
The laughter over James's joke about the recliner froze in Billie's throat as Lars mentioned his divorce, just plopping the information out there when the minute shifts in his expression, the veneer of uncaring, said that it had been difficult. Far more surprising than the tactless remark was the realisation that he could read the drummer somewhat. That he had a sensitivity to Lars's emotions that allowed him to do that.  
  
Billie nodded, free hand rubbing behind his ear in a substitute for running his hand through his spiked hair, fingers poking at the empty earring hole. "Yeah, Mike and Tré both did, too. It sucks. Nothing worthwhile comes without a price, least that's what Mike says."  
  
He fell silent, not sure what else to say and feeling a heaviness descend on him that was made up of too many things to name them all. He'd been right by both his bandmates' sides during their divorces, offering whatever help he could, which in Mike's case had meant giving a great deal of himself indeed. He was conscious of a wish to comfort Lars now, to tease out the bitterness and pain and obliterate them; and there was still the mixture of adrenalin and lust screeching through him, urging him to take. With everyone else staring at the floor in an effort to avoid seeing his reaction to that comment, Billie met green eyes head-on, his hand drifting over his throat on its way back to his side, the movement meant to convey…he didn't know what. Understanding? Compassion? Shared remembrance? Insanely strong desire?  
  
All of the above and more.  
  
He drained his glass, suppressing a cough as the bubbles tickled his throat, and looked openly at Lars again for only a moment before a voice he knew as well as his own spoke his name with an audible grin. The shutters slammed closed in his eyes and Billie turned to Mike with an answering smile.  
  
"Hey, there you are. Let me introduce you to Metallica."  
  
Neither the smile nor the pleasure in seeing his bassist was feigned, but as Billie made the introductions and Mike shook hands, he couldn't shake the way his insides were oriented towards someone else – someone he wasn't supposed to want – with a force that grew increasingly hard to ignore.  
  
For some reason, as Billie met his eyes for what seemed like a long few moments, Lars felt alarmingly vulnerable. It made the forced smile dwindle, caught off guard by the mostly indecipherable but penetrating gaze. Until recently, his own eyes would have darkened defensively, he would've muttered a snide, dangerous remark, he would've tensed up. Now, though, he only returned the look, attempting impassivity but not achieving it.  
  
Then there was that subtle brush of hand over throat, meaningless to anyone but him. Fucking hell, it made his heart stutter.  
  
He swallowed, mirroring Billie's drinking action and having to rein himself in from grasping another one, stuffing his hands into his pockets instead. _Don't get fucking drunk, asshole, not when James is around. It's not fair,_ he hissed inwardly. Conscience tweaking at the back of his head – not just for the drinking – he cast a glance at his bandmate, who had just picked out a soda from one of the waiters. When James turned around again, they exchanged smiles. Lars's was distinctly tight.  
  
Hearing Billie's voice, he looked back, finding new company in their midst. A spiky, lanky, tall (well, compared to he and Billie – he was still a midget compared to Papa Het) motherfucker with eyes as blue as his lover's. Who needed an introduction?  
  
As the chiselled-cheekboned man moved to meet James, Lars looked from them to Billie, raising an eyebrow. _Well, isn't this cozy?_ His gaze moved back as the bassist extended a hand towards him. A wide smile spread over Lars's face as he clasped it.  
  
"Hey there, I'm Lars," he greeted before Billie could introduce them. "Mike, right? Hey."  
  
Something inherently wicked blossomed suddenly in Lars's chest, and before what little diplomacy he had could kick in, he was speaking again. He indicated towards Billie and tapped at his throat.  
  
"Billie, you've got a little thing there, some mark or something, what is that?" He looked to Mike faux-curiously. "Some touring war story behind that?"  
  
Kirk and Rob frowned a little, exchanging a look and a bemused smile. Neither of them had noticed anything. James, meanwhile, couldn't help but peer at Billie's neck inquisitively.  
  
Lars managed to keep the cruel smirk from his lips.  
  
Billie's hand tightened on the crystal stem of his champagne flute at the so-innocent-sounding question. He forcibly relaxed his fingers before it snapped off. _You little fucker,_ he seethed inwardly as he got out a dismissive laugh.  
  
"Nah, nothing worth talking about. But I've got some nice scars on my knee from the time I fell right off the stage and these assholes didn't even notice I was gone until I hauled my bleeding body back onstage. Finished the set, though," he smirked. "Mike's racked up the most injuries of all of us. I think you've broken just about everything at least once, dude."  
  
He exchanged a glance with Mike, whose smile had taken on a hint of strain as he withdrew his hand from Lars's and moved over to Kirk. Billie reassured him wordlessly with a soft look born of years of non-verbal communication even as he felt the kick of guilt in his gut that this time it was a lie. It hadn't been the random comment he brushed it off as being, and rage poured into the mixture already boiling inside him at the drummer's sheer audacity in calling attention to the physical evidence of their night in front of both their longtime lovers.  
  
Along with a secret thrill that Lars had noticed it.  
  
"Yeah, the carpal tunnel surgery was the most annoying, I gotta say. Good as new afterwards, though," Mike responded as he returned to Billie's side, flexing his elbow. He seemed relaxed again and when Billie turned to look at him, that familiar blue gaze flickered down his neck and back up, and Mike gave him a warm smile. He mirrored it, resisting the urge to lean into the lanky frame and the serene comfort it represented.  
  
Instead he turned back to the other band and laughed again, a little more naturally than before. "Tré getting a cymbal to the back of the head is probably the most memorable one. He sets off metal detectors everywhere now."  
  
Hazel eyes hardened slightly as they crossed green, putting Lars on notice. _I will push back, asshole. Don't think that one night of surrender means that I'll always bare my throat for you._  
  
Lars's eyes narrowed insolently in the face of Billie's glare, and after a lightning fast glance around to make sure no-one was looking, he drew his tongue along his lips before smacking them silently. He'd barely even registered that conversation had continued after '…nothing worth talking about', noticing Billie's brief death-grip on his glass and feeling his stomach do backflips at both the action and the memory.  
  
"Oh, if we're gonna play _that_ game…" Kirk piped up, pointing towards James. "That guy there can totally trump you."  
  
James flashed a grin, rubbing at the back of his neck and squinting off into the distance.  
"Ohhh, fuck, where do I start?" he groaned. "Uh, I broke my wrist skateboarding right in the middle of a tour, I hurt my back water-skiing, uh, oh, I busted another bone skateboarding, I hurt my shoulder, got some nerve damage from stretching, uh…there was that thing with the jet ski…an ATV flipped and landed on my head while I was trying to save some guy from getting crushed, got a whole bunch of stitches from that…then there's the whole pyro incident in Montreal. Barbecued Hetfield!"  
  
"Order up!" Rob chuckled.  
  
"Yeah, the shit that happens when you're in a band," Kirk said, shaking his head. "Your liver probably hates you, too."  
  
"My liver hates everybody. My liver dresses all in black and writes poetry about how it's so misunderstood."  
  
A relaxed laugh all round at that, Lars once again shuffling to stand a little too close to James, arms brushing each time the frontman took a swig of his soda. The drummer saw another little window of opportunity in talk of James's scars. Once again, his diplomacy failed to cut in in time – it was still learning, after all – and he cocked his head at the tall man.  
  
"Hey, what about that little scar on your chest? Right around there…" he raised his hand and placed a finger over where it was – committed to memory as it was in his head – beneath James's shirt. "What is that?" As he drew his hand back, he took the soda from his lover's hand. "Probably got it from _pounding_ so fuckin' hard each night."  
  
The shock in the air was palpable as Lars sipped overly delicately from the drink, letting the statement hang there precariously for a few seconds. He glanced around at the faces as he swallowed, before continuing as if it was obvious. "On his guitar?"  
  
A few nervous chuckles and an incredibly well masked glare from James as he was given his drink back.  
  
"Yeah, I think that's what it was. I snapped a string, and the thing came up and gouged me. Coulda taken my eye out, so I guess I was lucky," he explained. "S'what I get for playing with my shirt off! I don't think it'll happen again, though."  
  
"It looks a little like Billie's, now that I think about it…" Lars mused. A little quieter than he'd intended, slightly bemused as he was by James's last comment. _What, punishment by deprivation, now?_ He brushed it off after a moment, brightening and looking for reactions to his own remark.  
  
Lars wasn't quite this audacious all the time. It was something about them all standing there, the secrets held by him and Billie, the danger in it all and the mischief that could be gleaned from the situation that turned him into a foolhardy kid poking a landmine with a stick. He just couldn't leave it alone.  
  
Maybe it was also the fact that, even after years had passed, years of growth and change and forging fresh bonds, there was still that same lustful, forbidden heat crawling across the floor from Billie. A heat he intended to capture at least once more in his lifetime.  
  
The second dangerous comment that had everyone's laughter stuttering came through Billie's contextual knowledge and made him blink. He remembered being pressed hard against a cheap wooden door, hearing a whispered confession that Lars had once been fucked in that very position. He also remembered his vague surprise at that, and his conclusion that most couples switched. And that it hadn't been relevant anyway, because even though Billie played bottom more often than not, he rarely submitted.  
  
Mike teased him about being the toppiest bottom ever. A smirk appeared as Billie Joe realised from Lars's remark that no, there was someone else he knew who held that title.  
  
Even if he couldn't quite picture anything but Lars looming over him, possessing.  
  
Ignoring the quiet comparison of wounds, he spoke up, none of his thoughts showing in his face. "Snapping guitar strings are the worst, especially when you're in the middle of trying to write something. But I think the large, motorised vehicle to the head takes the prize."  
  
As tension eased into chuckles again, Billie eyed Lars. His tightly-wound appearance said that he would keep at it, and if he did, something would eventually slip out that would give them both away. Billie chose to remove himself from the probability of explosion, though something in his gut twisted at the separation.  
  
"It was fantastic meeting you guys. We gotta go find our drummer, extricate him from whatever mess he's gotten himself into by now." Billie's gaze flickered over the members of Metallica, bouncing off James and back to Lars, and he couldn't resist a parting sally.  
  
"They really should come with leashes, huh?"  
  
With that, two-thirds of Green Day made their escape.  
  
Titters issued forth from a momentarily childish band, bar Lars himself.  
  
"And a muzzle," James smirked, evidently liking the way Billie thought. Lars scowled after the diminutive frontman's form as it disappeared into the crowd, a sneer taking his lips.  
  
"You fuckin' _wish_ ," he replied, both to Billie's parting remark and James's suggestive addendum. Without thought, he grasped another flute from a nearby tray and downed a good two-thirds of its sparkling contents, muttering mostly to himself. "Pussy…"  
  
James gave Lars a brief, questioning look; the drummer didn't notice, still watching after Billie, a little irked at the game being abruptly halted. He finished the rest of his champagne, depositing the glass nearby and beginning to follow the younger man. "I've gotta go to the bathroom."  
  
He was completely absorbed in trailing after Billie, a tightness growing in his gut and a spark of jealousy in his head. The latter came as somewhat of a surprise to him, but he dismissed it for now. He was so absorbed, in fact, that he only realised exactly what he was doing when Rob's voice reached his ears.  
  
"Dude."  
  
He stopped in his tracks and looked around, frowning. James pointed over his right shoulder. "Bathrooms are that way, Uli."  
  
Lars blinked to clear his eyes, took a breath. "Right."  
  
 _Get a grip. Clearly all this shit that's happened over the years and all the shit you've stuffed up your nose has made you fuckin' stupid.  
  
He's just a guy. A guy who just happened to be in the right place at the right time, and who you got a really good fuck out of. That was all. Don't fuckin' make it out to be any more than it is.  
  
Even if you're jealous of him and his boyfriend, for some fuckin' reason. Even if you do want to fuck each other's brains out. Still._  
  
Lars stared blankly at the ceramic tiled wall before him, concentrating hard on pissing and not the idea of hauling Billie into a cubicle and making him moan like a wanton whore. Not concentrating on that at all. Not at all.  
  
Once finished, he took the time to thud his head against the door as he opened it, before scuffing out into the corridor, back towards the ballroom. Raising his eyes as another guest passed him, he looked through the swinging doors into the party and slowed to a stop. He didn't want to go back out there. Not with that…forbidden fruit dangling in front of his face. So, he moved to rest against the wall, sliding down with a grunt and plopping himself on the floor. He pulled out his cell phone and pretended to dick around with it, so it didn't look like he was just moping.  
  
 _So much for the good mood._  
  
"What is up with that guy?" Mike wanted to know. "Did you piss him off before I got there?"  
  
A rueful laugh escaped. _You have no idea._ Idly Billie wondered just how much the leash comment had bothered Lars, knowing that he would have been made to pay for it if he'd stayed.  
  
He might be, yet, and that idea sent his stomach into wild somersaults of twinned anticipation and dread, heavily laced with guilt. He looked at Mike, at warm blue eyes crinkled at the corners from his smile, and felt an incredible wave of affection that formed a discordant harmony with the elemental heat soaring through him, aimed at one arrogant dickhead of a drummer.  
  
Confused as hell, Billie merely answered the question with a partial truth. "He's probably holding a grudge about that shit I said about _Some Kind of Monster_."  
  
"Right," Mike nodded. "I still don't get why you won't watch it; I thought it was good. Wouldn't work for us, hell no, but it seems to have done good things for them."  
  
"Yeah. Maybe I will sometime." _Like when hell freezes over,_ he added silently.  
  
The noise, the various perfumes and scents in the room, the lights…Mike's thoughtful attentiveness. It was suddenly overwhelming and he wanted to get away from all of it. He patted his pocket, pulling out the battered package of Camels and sticking one in his mouth.  
  
"I need a cigarette or ten. Just expect me when you see me, 'kay."  
  
"You all right?"  
  
"Yeah, yeah. Crash is starting, that's all." He shrugged and Mike smiled, understanding as always. The bassist squeezed his arm lightly.  
  
"Go blacken your lungs, then. Maybe they can write emo poetry with James's liver."  
  
That got a laugh and Billie placed his hand over Mike's before they split. He watched the lanky form move away for a moment, an indefinable sadness hovering, then shook it off and detoured to take a piss first.  
  
A hotel employee accosted him almost the second he stepped out of the bathroom and he plucked the cigarette from his mouth, waving it in front of her.  
  
"It's not even lit, lady. I'm not going to smoke in your precious hotel, don't worry." Scowling, his adrenalin high completely degenerated into moodiness by this time, he stalked down the hallway towards the back door, so intent on the Lars in his mind that he missed the real thing sitting there.  
  
The drummer frowned at the sudden influx of verbal noise accosting his ears - it had been dead quiet in that hallway up until then, something he'd sorely needed. He shifted and tried to concentrate more on his phone, block it out, whether it was addressing him or not.  
At least, that was until the voice registered with him. A stone dropped in his stomach. He looked up, incredulity and something akin to annoyance washing through him as he set eyes on the very person he was here to unwillingly avoid, walking away, towards the rear entrance. A hiss spiked through his mind.  
  
 _What the fuck is this, fate or something?_  
  
He watched Billie continue on, the younger man having either not noticed him or ignoring him, words stuck up in his throat. He looked back to the ballroom's double doors, then back to Billie, then to the double doors again. Nervous energy suddenly buzzed through him, some generator firing up in his chest, making it tight and hot.  
  
 _Okay. If a member of my band comes through those doors in the next thirty seconds, I won't go after him,_ he bargained with himself. Sloping to his feet and slipping his cell phone back in his pocket, he watched and waited. Silently wishing that no Quirk, no Samurai Whiskey Warlord and especially no Mighty Het would pass through the doors.  
  
After twenty seconds, on hearing the back door swing closed, his nerves and impatience got the best of him. "Fuck it."  
  
Turning, he moved off, trailing after his forbidden fruit. _Just one more bite, allow me that…_  
  
He was three-quarters of the way to the rear entrance when he heard the doors behind him squeak, a voice following soon after. "Hey, where you going?" Kirk called. Lars winced a little, stopping. Swivelling halfway, his conscience slammed down onto his desire, grappling it in a powerful headlock.  
  
"Um…" _Decision, decision, decision, DECISION…_ "I'm just going out for a little fresh air, it's fuckin' stuffy in there."  
  
 _Gee, Uli, I'm sure if you tried harder you could think of a worse excuse._  
  
Kirk seemed satisfied. "Alright, man. See ya back inside…"  
  
Lars was already moving again, giving a wave over his shoulder. What he didn't see, though, was that before Kirk went into the bathroom, he peered through the back door as his drummer opened it. Peered through to see Billie already out there.  
  
He frowned.  
  
Billie still hadn't noticed Lars, head turned down the street, leaning against the wall and evidently absorbed in thought. The older man gave a quiet, snuffing laugh, before raising an arm above his head and resting it against the pole that supported the awning. Hip jutting out, other hand in his pocket, head dipped low, all a conscious effort to look _good_. He eyed his quarry for a moment longer before finally speaking, voice a low drawl.  
  
"A leash, huh?"  
  
As soon as he was clear of the door Billie had his lighter out and his mood settled a little with the first drag. He knew it was a bad habit but fuck it. He was down to cigarettes, booze, and some weed now and again from all the shit he'd put in his body back when they'd first started out, so he figured he was already well ahead of the game. He wasn't about to give up all his vices.  
  
Thinking about vices, he moved to a bare patch of wall and leaned back, staring into space. That immense swell of desire still floated, sharp-edged, just under the surface and its presence surprised him. He hadn't expected to have such a strong reaction to the mere sight of Lars. The few times he'd thought about the possibility of running into the drummer again, once it had become clear that they were each sorting out their separate lives, Billie had thought there might be some awkwardness, maybe some forced laughter or excessive politeness. Morning after kind of shit.  
  
Not this crazy fucking _need_ piercing him.  
  
He inhaled deeply, holding the smoke in his lungs for a moment before breathing it out and watching it curl into the cool air. It simply didn't make sense to feel this way about someone he had spent less than 24 hours with, no matter how memorable the brief time had been. It shouldn't be able to intrude on a relationship that had lasted decades, with someone that he loved deeply. _But you've never felt a jolt of insane lust like this with him,_ that ever-present, annoying as fuck voice spoke up in his head.  
  
He became aware of eyes on him seconds before Lars spoke, his thoughts scattering.  
  
A cynical laugh spilled forth as he took in the drummer's pose. Billie Joe had to admit that it worked, though: Lars looked good, stretched open like that. He liked the longer hair. Softened him a bit. One might think that nothing would soften Lars, but he remembered being cradled to sleep by those muscular arms. Even if the softness had been accompanied by a death threat.  
  
A thrill shot through him that Lars was even here – that the drummer had come to him this time. That the instant kick of wanting had definitely not been one-sided.  
  
He took another drag, pursing his lips around the cigarette and sucking hard enough to make his cheeks hollow. Deliberately evoking the comparison. When he exhaled, he finally spoke, anticipation unfurling at the potential responses. Verbally sparring with this man was exhilarating in and of itself, particularly with a lack of audience.  
  
"The idea has merits. Although a gag might be the better choice, considering how you kept shooting your mouth off in there."  
  
"Takes two to tango, motherfucker. You didn't _have_ to come over," Lars shot back, letting his eyes roam lazily over the smartly attired frontman. "You know I don't do anything _but_ shoot my mouth off, because I'm Lars fucking Ulrich, okay?"  
  
A certain amount of self-deprecation laced his tone, in that usual Lars way that left his gravity unclear. Dropping the front – because, after the long period of therapy and looking in on himself, he'd admitted it _was_ mostly a front – he straightened up and took a step or two closer, hands finding safety in his pockets. He regarded Billie, head cocked, taking in that nest of surprised looking black hair, fuller face, black lined hazel eyes, all of it properly for the first time. A soft little smirk appeared on his face, warmth reaching his eyes.  
  
"You look really good."  
  
…Nope, that was it, no insult, no smart-mouthed, sardonic comment to follow, for once. _Little Lars is all grown up,_ he thought. Shaking himself out of impending sentimentality, Lars turned his gaze off down the quiet backstreet.  
  
"I see it all turned out sunny again for you guys, huh?" he murmured. "Not just your band. You and your boy."  
  
He couldn't deny that he'd quietly been hoping, since finding out that Green Day were going to be appearing at the awards ceremony, that maybe they hadn't. Vindictive, yes, selfish, yes. But he'd fancied another taste and didn't like sharing. The guilt factor, too, had grown stronger since the last time and on learning that both he and Billie had managed to work things out with their respective lovers. Guilt for both James and Mike, which never even used to be a factor in Lars's spoilt brain. He wanted, he took. Exactly what he'd done that night at the bar.  
  
Now, though, it was different. Understatement of the century.  
  
He was happy in his relationship. He was happy in his band. He was more aware of how he'd treated others, and how they'd treated him. He was more mature, more accepting, (slightly) less controlling, and still managed to be the Lars that everyone loved to hate – talkative, proud, bold, goal-driven, fiery. Things were pretty good.  
  
But he wanted Billie. Fucking _needed_ him, his taste and skin, his voice and heat, temptation wrapped in a black suit. Much, much more strongly than before, like the last time was only a preview – ridiculous, considering what they'd done. Now he wanted that, and more, and for longer.  
  
He was happy with what he had, but he needed this little oddly assembled, spiky, not-so-scrawny purveyor of punk rock like fucking cocaine. _That_ was the understatement of the century.  
  
Forcibly pulling himself from such contradictory thoughts, Lars sighed a little and spoke again, quietly, eyes remaining off in the distance.  
  
"What did you tell him about the wounds?"  
  
"You look good, too," Billie returned the compliment. _Too good,_ he added silently. Or maybe it was the fact that Lars was right here to be looked at that was so good.  
  
A smile tugged at his lips. "I'll cop to starting it. You just started skating awfully close to the line, dude, especially after Mike showed up. He…" The thought trailed off and he sighed, running a hand through his hair, not caring anymore if it fucked up the spikes. He looked at the drummer, though Lars continued to stare out at the street, and answered the question in a voice almost too quiet to hear.  
  
"Everything, except who. I went straight there after you left and met him at the door with my shirt open."  
  
It had been the worst fight they'd ever had – that Billie had ever had with anyone. Finally, hoarse from all the yelling, he'd stopped it with a whispered, 'I've missed you so fucking much'.  
  
Not a magic fix by any means, but a place to start, to work from, and they'd taken that opportunity and used it well. He and Mike were closer than they'd been in a long damn time.  
  
Only, everything hadn't been quite everything. Billie Joe hadn't confessed how that night had made him feel; how the rawness had overwhelmed him and forced him open; how he'd willingly given in to Lars and let him take whatever he wanted, and gloried in it when the drummer had taken it all.  
  
Not one word about how he ached to experience that kind of possession again, with an intensity that verged on frightening. Or how that ache was tied to one person alone.  
  
The one standing right in front of him, green gaze swinging around to meet his.  
  
As Lars looked around, he didn't bother to mask his surprise. He'd become less guarded about a lot of things, especially his feelings, and thus his vibrant eyes were even more emotive than before. He was and always would be European in that sense – passion was in his blood.  
  
It didn't take a genius to figure out that Mike didn't know that it was Lars's teeth that had damaged Billie's perfect flesh, Lars's fury that had savaged through him so and left him bleeding and, for want of a better term, utterly fucked. Any sane man – or woman, for that matter – would have had the Dane pinned and choking out his last rasps of air long before now, and if not that then at least sent him sprawling across the ballroom floor earlier. Either that or Mike had to be some serious fucking Zen master. No, the man who fucked his boyfriend into the ground had been stood right before him, and he'd greeted the drummer just the same as everyone else.  
  
But what Billie _had_ done took guts. An incredible amount of guts. In confessing the incident outright, he'd been the one to bear the brunt of the storm and ride it out, the one to make that first drastic move into fixing his problems.  
  
Lars, however, had not.  
  
James knew nothing. He'd returned from rehab months after, and he'd been the one to make the first move. Clean and sober and _awake_ to so many things, he had taken Lars aside one night, and they'd talked, alone, until dawn. Apologies were repeatedly exchanged, 'seriously heavy stuff' (as the frontman had succinctly put it) was discussed, and fuck, a few tears were even shed. The sun had risen to Lars in James's arms, cradled, curled in his lover's lap. The two of them doing nothing but being in each other's presence. Being so close, like that, was something they'd never done before, and Lars had thought it was the most glorious hour of his life.  
  
His night with Billie became a skeleton closed tight in the back of his closet, saved for nights alone, just him and his dick. Now, learning what Billie had done, it made the drummer feel weak and ashamed. All the work Billie and James had put into fixing their respective relationships, and what had Lars done? Pfft.  
  
Standing there, out on that street, he made the decision to tell James. As soon as this fucking awards shit was over, as soon as they were away from cameras and the public and the rest of his band, he would tell James what he'd done. And they would be stronger for it, he was sure. Just like Billie and Mike.  
  
What factor he seemed to miss in this decision was this itch he needed to scratch. Raw. This itch that was pulling him closer and closer to the younger man, drawing his body to do things his mind caught up on an age later. Like now – as he blinked, he found himself much closer to Billie than before, barely a foot between them. A strong hand had been raised and rested against the frontman's chest, shirt lapel folded down under it, completely uncovering _that_ scar. He looked up into wide open hazel eyes for a heartbeat, before slowly dipping his head and pressing wet lips to his mark. Taste, scent and memories hit him one after the other with dizzying force, and his mouth stuttered along the skin it craved, sweeping up the curve of a pale neck and only stopping on reaching the earlobe, where it nibbled and sucked at the soft flesh.  
  
Lars halted himself forcibly, breath shuddering out of him as he pulled Billie into his chest in a tight embrace – a tight _grip_ – sending the cigarette spiralling to the ground with the force as lithe arms looped around shoulders, cheek met cheek, one body attempting to press to every inch of the other. He felt his heart miss a beat here and there, tripping over itself; he was sure at this proximity Billie could feel it too. His cock, already half hard in his pants, probably didn't escape notice either.  
  
"You still taste really good," he breathed.  
  
There were too many things to name in Lars's eyes as he approached, thoughts and emotions swirling there with a shocking openness. Billie hardly dared to breathe as that hand exposed his throat, followed by the wet glide of a strangely gentle mouth. It seemed that for all his bravado in the ballroom earlier, and all the reasons this should not be happening, he couldn't remain impassive with this man.  
  
His cigarette dropped from nerveless fingers as the drummer wrapped his arms around Billie and crushed him close. His eyes closed and he inhaled Lars's unique scent, something he hadn't even known he'd missed. Billie's heart turned over at the thought.  
  
It felt so much better than it should, being in this embrace. Feeling the way both their pulses stumbled and raced. A low whine leaked out as Lars shifted and Billie Joe became suddenly and totally aware of the erection pressing against him. His hips pushed closer instinctively, grazing it with his own swollen flesh. Another choked sound bubbled out and he muffled it with a kiss to Lars's jaw.  
  
He would ask himself how they'd gotten to this point, locked in each other's arms, but the truth was that it felt as though it had been inevitable from the instant that Tré had rattled off the list of partygoers and Billie had realised who was here. Inevitable, and somehow, so very right.  
  
The same way it had felt right to have Lars's mouth covering the mark he'd made years ago. It was such a _little_ scar, really, a small blemish of whiter skin on already-pale flesh, but it held power out of all proportion with its size. Because it had been forbidden, even as their actions now were. Because it had awakened something inside Billie that he hadn't known he wanted – no, that he needed, passionately and profoundly.  
  
Because it hadn't been just a throwaway fuck after all. It had meant something. How much, Billie didn't know, and the prospect of finding out scared the shit out of him. He'd fixed his life, goddamn it.  
  
But memories hammered at him, everything jolted to the forefront by the familiar feel of the man pressed intimately to him, and he was grateful for the brick wall at his back and the even stronger drummer in front of him as his head spun furiously and his knees went to jelly.  
  
"Lars," he murmured, needing to feel the name on his tongue. Billie couldn't bring himself to say anything else just yet – or to do anything else, other than sink into the full-body hug. This time, things were different. _He_ was different.  
  
And he had so fucking much more to lose.  
  
The skin of the drummer's jaw burned, hot from the sudden touch and then absence of Billie's lips. Feeling the younger man almost go limp in his arms, feeling his cock twitch, feeling breath trace over the side of his neck, feeling, feeling, _feeling_. It was all on his sense of touch and it was all too fucking much.  
  
" _Fuck_ ," Lars hissed eloquently. Adrenalin taking his nerves and shaking them like a ragdoll, he slid from around his temptation, backing off to the relative safety of a foot distance again.  
  
It didn't last.  
  
He let himself be held by those eyes again, let himself be sucked in by those hazels that were a little scared, haunting, too bright. His own eyes flickered in the face of them, throat barren all of a sudden. The posturing, the dangerous remarks, the heated looks of the night all melted away and left one simple, quiet, dark statement.  
  
"We are so fucking _stupid_."  
  
Lars closed the gap between them again, hands raising at first to tentatively push the dark spikes hanging just barely over long eyelashes, then to thread into the black nest of hair and pull Billie's mouth into his. He moaned, loud and thankful, two pairs of lips parting, a shudder that could have come from either of them. And fuck, it was so, so good – not so much savage as penetrating, urgent but savouring, managing to maintain the knife-edge balance between frenzied need and delicious, unhurried pleasure. It just took his soul and bound it around Billie Joe Armstrong's little finger.  
  
He didn't just not care that they were outside, in the middle of the sidewalk, where fans or press or James or anyone could see them. He wasn't even aware of it.  
  
Billie had stilled when the drummer moved back, unable even to cross his arms against the abrupt lack of warmth. Green eyes glittered at him across the short distance and he exhaled convulsively at Lars's words.  
  
Yes, they were stupid. Stupid to have goaded each other at the party, stupid to be out here together now, stupid to have ever allowed themselves to touch. Stupid not to have known that one touch would not be enough.  
  
He leaned against the wall, fear rising in him of what this could mean…but not as fast as desire, and nowhere near as strongly as need. He couldn't be the initiator this time, though. That his conscience would not permit.  
  
But Billie Joe could accept it when Lars moved closer; could welcome the searing gentleness of his fingers brushing back unruly hair. And he could tumble headlong into a kiss that he never wanted to end.  
  
Taste flooded him, igniting his blood. The force of it was as he remembered but the fury was absent, transmuted into a different kind of urgency, at once less savage and greedier. It inspired his hands to roam, skating over the drummer's body. Fingertips relearning textures as they slipped beneath the shirt, wanting skin. Nothing mattered, so long as they didn't stop.  
  
The grate of leather on brick penetrated Billie's awareness finally and he pulled his head back, breathing heavily.  
  
"Lars, we can't…not here."  
  
He should have negated the action entirely, not just the location. He knew that. Fuck, they both knew that, because insofar as it was possible, they both knew what they were risking.  
  
The risk paled in comparison to the compulsion to see this through – to explore this heated madness, this astonishing hunger, as fully as possible. Everything inside him demanded that it be given that chance.  
  
Billie curled his hands into the drummer's waistband and reiterated his protest. "Not here."  
  
His eyes issued the invitation to move it somewhere else.  
  
A rasped affirmation left the older man. "Yeah."  
  
Lars grasped Billie's half-protest and ran with it, by grasping the younger man's wrist and running with it. Well, almost. He got a few steps back towards the hotel doors before stopping, cogs turning in his head. _Fuck, where, where, where?_ The fact that he was suddenly so nervous didn't aid his broken thought process – he was so, so much more nervous than the first time. Then it had been about shared misery, enforced drunkenness, and, as he himself had said, distraction. This time held so much more significance, and in turn gave their first time more significance. It made it more than a one night stand.  
  
What did it make _them_ , though? Lars didn't dare to think. It was too much to contemplate now. Even though he still retained a fair amount of his controlling tendencies, he didn't want to steer this – whatever the fuck it was they had – in any particular direction with thoughts like that. Of the few definite resolutions he could think of, none of them could possibly see everybody involved in this end up happy. In blinkering himself from rational thought, he could follow his instinct and his lust and let this crazy, stupid, utterly unbelievable runaway train careen on into the dark.  
  
Once this night was done, though, maybe they…maybe there would be…  
  
It was too much to contemplate now.  
  
The drummer's grip tightened a little on Billie's wrist, and he shook his head to clear it. _Where?_  
  
"Um…" His mind sprawled out to what he'd seen around the hotel, any closed off areas, quiet corners, unlocked storerooms, fucking anything…wait. Sparks went off in his eyes as he turned back to Billie, speaking with feverish inspiration. "The ballroom…there's another ballroom, a smaller one right next to this one, empty. We can get to it from the foyer…there has to be a-a little nook or something in there, right?"  
  
An impish, almost elated grin spread over his face, nervous giggle sputtering forth. Fucking hell, what were they, naughty teens at a prom?  
  
He peered through the doors down the corridor towards the bustling party, then looked back, grin still in place but with green eyes that burned with wicked desire, the same that had taken them back when he'd arched down over Billie in that darkened booth. He jerked his head at the doors, at the incredibly dangerous path they had to take. "You first."


	2. Hit The Lights On These Dark Sets

_Me first? Why me? Why do_ I _have to go first?_ Billie mentally babbled, nerves strung taut and butterflies doing wild aerial stunts in his stomach. He felt a rush of giddiness at the amazing craziness of it all and a small laugh burst forth in answer to the drummer's grin.  
  
Along with a shiver of need at that green fire, licking at his insides. That was what got him in motion, slipping soundlessly inside the empty corridor and walking confidently into the goddamned foyer of the hotel, moving like he had somewhere to go.  
  
He did, of course, but that wasn't what informed the manner of movement. Billie Joe had learned a long time ago that if you acted like you knew what you were doing and where you were going, people assumed that it was true and let you be. Except in this case, he had no fucking clue what he was doing. Billie was happily married, basically twice over: to Adrienne and to Mike, however unofficially, and knowing that he could find no rational explanation for his current actions.  
  
There was the obvious: he was heading for a quiet area with some privacy so they could fulfill the promise in that kiss. But the why of that, the meaning behind it; he didn't know. Didn't know and could not think about it right now. All he could think about – all he dared focus on – was the feeling of Lars's skin against his fingertips, the taste of his mouth. The way his body felt pressed tightly against him.  
  
The power in his embrace, that didn't – wouldn't – belong to Billie.  
  
He entered the far hallway without incident, spotting the empty ballroom immediately and walking inside. Scanning the darkened room, chairs and tables scattered drunkenly all over the place, he noticed the window cut-out along one wall with a door beside it. _Coat room. Jackpot._  
  
Billie navigated the obstacle course to the coat room and left its door ajar behind him. Minimal light spilled in through the cut-out, forming a distorted rectangle on the carpeted floor. He stood just outside the fall of light, fine tremors running through him. A muffled din of music, laughter and voices streamed into his ears, the sounds confirming that the afterparty was still in full swing.  
  
All of those people, just the other side of the wall. If they only knew… He snuffed that thought before it went any further, because the very idea that this would happen literally right under everyone's noses had him breathing hard in anticipation. The absolute risk heightened his arousal, much as it had when Lars had had his hand in Billie's open pants in that bar and threatened to fuck him in the middle of the room.   
  
This time, he would have to stay quiet, because there was nowhere else to go. Mike had booked them into adjoining rooms, something they didn't dare do all the time, because he'd thought it would make for a nice little romantic break for a couple of days. He grimaced at the reminder, guilt striking him both for what he was here to do, and for knowing that this stupid little room, for all its inherent drawbacks in this situation, held more appeal than the lavish suite upstairs.  
  
What Billie didn't know was that his own drummer had seen him head for the foyer, where the elevators to their hotel rooms were, with puzzlement about his lack of a farewell if he were going to call it a night. Nor did he know that Tré had shrugged it off to Billie's mood and gone back to the party, heading straight for the nearest bartender.  
  
Ignorant of that particular danger, Billie shucked off the jacket, hanging it up on a whim, and leaned against the wall, trying to contain his whirling thoughts and waiting for his green-eyed lover.  
  
Lars watched Billie disappear from view and fell back, away from the doors. He figured he'd give it about a minute before following after him – a balance between not wanting to arouse suspicion with whoever might see them and the raging… _tiger_ of lust roaring around in his belly. Okay, so that sucked, whatever. It wasn't like his mind was on good English right then. He bit the tip of his tongue, pushed a hand through his hair, turned slowly on his heel to cast his eyes around the quiet street. Letting the time tick away and thinking he was probably the most conspicuous person on the planet right then.  
  
His gaze fell upon the still burning cigarette a few feet away, forgotten since being loosed from Billie's fingers. He thought about Billie's lips, how they had wrapped around the filter, how they moved when he talked, how they felt pressed against his own, how they tasted.  
  
How much the drummer wanted to make them wet and bloody and open wide.  
  
He walked over, stood on the cigarette and twisted his foot to put it out, then turned and walked back into the hotel.  
  
He didn't bargain on Kirk appearing out of the bathroom after getting not five steps into the corridor. Rattled, heart taking a brief holiday in his throat as the guitarist looked at him, he frowned. "Fuck, Quirk, how long were you in there?"  
  
Kirk shrugged innocently. "Just got talking to a couple guys…why, were you waiting for me?"  
  
" _No_ …" Lars replied, overly defensive. He took a breath. _Calm the fuck down._ "I'll be right back, I've got somewhere to be."  
  
"Okay…" Kirk pouted a little, wanting to ask exactly where he needed to be, but feeling Lars might chew his head off for it. Kirk hadn't been talking to anyone in the bathroom – he'd been curiously waiting for either Billie or Lars to appear again. Lo and behold, Billie had walked past the bathroom barely a minute before Lars. And now, as Lars continued past the guitarist, they had both gone in the same direction – the foyer and, he assumed, the entrance.  
  
Kirk murmured under his breath as he walked back to the ballroom doors.  
  
"Jeez, did you piss each other off that much?"  
  
Lars pushed the smaller ballroom's door shut behind him, eyes following the sliver of light draped across the floor to the partially open door. He grinned again, pleased at Billie's find. _That's it, this_ has _to be fate,_ he thought with some amusement. _The Gods want us to fuck._  
  
Footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor, he made his way slowly to the cloakroom, anticipation being half the fun. The way his stomach boiled told him so. He slipped gracefully through the gap and tugged the door closed, leaning against it. The quiet click of the handle was like the sound of all his responsibilities and guilt disappearing, focus narrowing to the lithe, pretty creature before him.  
  
He hooked a finger into one of Billie's belt loops, pulling him until their hipbones bumped together.  
  
"When you were onstage earlier, you really got my dick hard." he drawled softly. "Cocktease."  
  
The loss of the sound of the drummer's footsteps, erased by the change in flooring, combined with the snick of the door closing behind him to make it feel like the temperature in the small room soared as the world was shut out. Billie laughed at the accusation as he was dragged close, acutely conscious of the feel of their erections rubbing together.  
  
His hands went around the other man's waist, seeking the skin they had so recently been exploring, and he nuzzled Lars's ear. "If you think one song was a cocktease, dude, you wouldn't last through a whole concert. I aim to get every dick hard and every pussy dripping wet."  
  
He stopped talking long enough for a swift kiss, tongue sweeping in to capture the addictive taste. He couldn't get enough now that he'd started. "S'pretty much why I spend a couple minutes with my hand in my pants, moaning into the microphone. Seems to work well."  
  
A delighted grin spread across Billie's face at Lars's total surprise. "Guess you hadn't heard about that part of the Green Day experience." He leaned in for yet another kiss, eyes hooding in arousal as he murmured against the drummer's mouth.  
  
"Then again, you've already heard the special deluxe edition of that."   
  
Lars smiled into the second kiss, oddly content. It was true, he'd heard little to nothing about Green Day's shows, other than that they were very well received. Though he now made a mental note to pick up a bootleg of one of their shows after this…  
  
He also couldn't help but laugh low in his throat, the sound buzzing against Billie's lips. "Damn right I have," he murmured in reply, pressing back against the door and curling a hand around the back of the younger man's neck. "And you've seen this piece of Danish Dynamite sweaty and panting and hunched over, so I guess you've got no reason to come see us…"  
  
That hand slid down the curve of Billie's back to squeeze his ass hard, as he'd been wanting to do since the night had begun. The taste, the touch of the frontman brought back the wicked, possessive, dominating Lars that had exploded to life that night in the bar, brought him back in spades. Teeth bit into a full bottom lip, demanding more from the kiss, hands roaming and tugging at clothing, heartbeat echoing in his ears.  
  
A little twitch of memory made itself known in the back of his head, just barely making its way through the bright spike of arousal taking him over. He decided to voice it, mouth moving to drag wetly over Billie's Adam's apple, planting a number of kisses on that small scar as he spoke.  
  
"I hear you didn't like our little movie…"  
  
Billie's laugh at the cheesy title faded as the drummer's hand found its way to his ass and teeth nipped at his mouth, a low moan sounding instead. Biting had never been a fetish of his, or indeed considered much at all, before spending the night with this man. Now he found himself yearning for the sharp sensation and the shift in Lars's mood, his emerging aggressiveness, told him that the chances were good that he'd get it.   
  
Fumbling with the older man's belt buckle – apparently he hadn't seen fit to start wearing ones that opened easily, even after the trouble he'd had the last time – he heard the question and frowned.  
  
"Movie?" he asked stupidly, mind slow to catch up. When he realised Lars meant _Some Kind of Monster_ , he flushed, a little embarrassed at both his momentary lapse of memory and his flippant remarks. It didn't stop him from tipping his head back to let that mouth skim over his throat, though, or the shiver that descended his spine at the attention lavished on his scar.  
  
"The documentary, yeah. I was…fuck, I was talking out of my ass. I haven't seen it."  
  
He practiced honesty in his relationships now, as fully as possible, though he shied away from thinking about the fact that he'd automatically slotted dealing with Lars into that category. Or about how he might explain this interlude away; that his madness had not been cured after all but had been locked into a little room in his head, waiting for arrogant green heat to set it free.  
  
Softly, his voice only a breath above a whisper, Billie Joe admitted, "I can't watch it, Lars. I've seen enough clips and read enough about it to know what's in it, and I just…can't."  
  
He willed the drummer to understand, even as he finally got the pants open and reached in, greedy fingers closing around Lars's cock.  
  
A throaty grunt and shuddering breath escaped Lars at the sorely craved contact, his hips twitching convulsively. The sensation was not quite enough to filter out Billie's words, however. His mouth paused in its travels over Billie's skin, and he pulled his head back to look at the other man directly, panting a little. His eyes remained hazed with arousal, but his eyebrows furrowed, questioning.  
  
 _What does that mean? What the fuck does that mean? Not that he won't watch it, but that he_ can't… _what is it, jealousy at me and James? Does he think that the movie sucks that much? Or…_  
  
The whirlwind of thoughts ground to a halt as one particular thought came up that his mind wasn't ready to deal with. A part incredulous, part wry voice unfurled in his head.  
  
 _Faen, are there_ feelings _getting themselves involved now?_  
  
Oddly, the drummer heard his heart thumping louder in his ears at that. And he answered his own question before his mind realised what he was doing.  
  
Raising himself from his heavy lean against the door, he tilted his head to meet Billie's lips in a slow, deep, deliberate kiss. The sort of kiss that claimed full attention, and that was kind of what Lars intended. He wasn't sure _exactly_ what he intended by it, but he wanted to convey at least some of the confusion and some of the emotions he was then feeling – whatever they were. He wanted Billie to feel… _something_ from his direction, at any rate. If not clarity.  
  
In fact, the only reason he broke off the kiss was because Billie's grip around his cock shifted, slid a little back then forth, probably unintentional. Nevertheless, it made Lars choke on his breath and break away; once his eyes flickered dazedly open, he saw that his hands had moved to clasp either side of the younger man's face, like they were some adoring couple in a cheesy fucking chick flick. The heat in his eyes faltered for a moment, the moment blindsiding him, before returning to their heavy-lidded, smoky green warmth as they held Billie's gaze. His hips bucked into a tattooed hand, once, twice, mouth falling open to moan softly and pant, hands sliding to the frontman's shirt. All the while enveloping himself in those dilated hazel eyes, until he could stare at them no longer and let his own eyes slide shut, head rolling back against the door in surrender.  
  
 _This is gonna end so badly, and I don't even fucking care._  
  
Billie submerged into that incredible kiss eagerly, letting everything go but the feel of that slow tasting of each other. Letting it wipe him clean and invade his senses.  
  
Until he felt Lars shift, reaching to cradle Billie's face, and his lips vibrated with a soundless whimper, hand twitching in a forgotten caress. Warmth of a different kind flowed through him at the bewildered emotion in the drummer's eyes when he pulled back and a lump formed in his throat, only to be forcibly swallowed down and ignored. _This is so fucking impossible. But I—I can't stop. Any more than I could stop breathing right now. Whatever comes of this, we'll deal with it later._  
  
He refocussed on the smooth, hard flesh in his grip, tightening his fingers and beginning to stroke purposefully as green eyes closed, dark head thudding against the door. Billie followed, mouth seeking skin as nimble fingers finished with Lars's shirt, fabric parting to reveal the dull wink of silver. He bent down and tongued the pierced nipple, feeling the skin draw tight around the metal. It was new for him, intriguing, the tastes blending into a heady combination and he sucked hard, daring to set his teeth lightly against the sensitive nerve endings, biting down even as his freed hand scraped down the drummer's back.  
  
Trying to experience everything at once in case it was taken away again.  
  
Lars shivered, convulsive ripples rolling back and forth over his whole body. All the sensations were overwhelming him beautifully, making the hairs rise on his arms and his nipples harden to little pebbles. His hand twisted into the shoulder fabric of Billie's shirt, head rocking to the side and eyes slipping open a crack to watch the younger man at work. " _Fuck…_ " he hissed at the sight of that tongue swirling around his nipple before full lips closed over it, his hand tightening, feeling the seam strain under his grip.  
  
Heat seared at the skin of his back where Billie's fingertips dragged, racing up his spine and into his brain, all his senses feeling heightened by this not-so-simple act of sin. Everything seemed focussed and sharp, his breathing sounded louder, more of a rasp. As much as this attention was appreciated – and, by the incessant throb, the almost painful tightness and heat in his gut, it was – every blazing nerve in him told him he had to have Billie _beneath_ him.  
  
That thought had barely manifested itself when Lars was hauling Billie up and back by that fistful of shirt, pushing him until his back collided with the table near the cut-out window. Curling his other hand into the front of Billie's shirt, he lifted the frontman clean off his feet with a growl and stretched him over the table, peeling the shirt deftly from him and dropping it aside. His knees came to rest on either side of taut thighs, and right then the hotel wasn't just a memory – it was a blueprint. The drummer straightened up, letting his shirt slide off his shoulders to crumple to the floor. He looked down at the sprawled, vaguely startled man… _beneath_ him, and tilted his head, pants still open and erection bobbing free for all to see.  
  
"What do you want me to do to you, huh?" he purred. His eyes narrowed, a faint, wicked grin touching his lips. "And what are you gonna do to _me_?"  
  
One minute he was sunk in the taste and feel of the drummer's skin and the next, he found himself half-stripped and horizontal, pinned to the table by a hard body that gleamed nude in the faint light. Billie stared up at Lars, memory tripping into need in the here-and-now, triggering that side of himself that had stayed hidden all this time. Concealed out of necessity and fear, the latter not only his own. Stuffed down to make room for all the normal, pretty interactions in his relationship – for all those things that had just been stomped into the ground when Lars had flung him onto his back.  
  
He stretched, arching, a grin appearing at the questions. "I was already doing something to you, dude. You seemed to be enjoying it at the time." His eyes flickered pointedly to the exposed erection and back up to see amusement join the arousal burning in Lars's gaze. Desire speared through him. He couldn't explain the appeal, or why he had such a visceral reaction to the older man's taunting; he'd given up trying to figure it out years ago. Thinking it was probably some anomaly he could chalk up to the entire bizarre situation of their first time.  
  
Except, here he was again, spread underneath this man, cock aching at the aggressiveness and the sly comments, and it wasn't an anomaly after all. He was offering himself up like a slut – wanting to _be_ a slut, for Lars. A whine left his throat and he wet his lips before speaking, feeling other words, pleas and cries, stockpiling in the back of his head even as this first vaguely terrifying admission rasped forth.  
  
"I want you to do whatever you want to me. I'm here for your pleasure, Lars."  
  
The grin on Lars's face was akin to the one that had blossomed once the drummer had remembered the smaller ballroom, when they were still outside barely fifteen minutes ago. Only now, on closer inspection, it became less impish and much more demonic. He felt like he was swelling, skin growing tighter, muscles more taut, drinking in the sight of the arched, porcelain white body and feeling something indefinable _rise_ inside him. Right then he didn't realise that Billie was the only person who had stirred that giddy, needful feeling in him in a long time. Not James.  
  
Last time, for Lars, it had been all about James. A need for revenge, a need for a bitter reprisal and a release. This time, the need was on a different level. This time it was all about him and Billie. James did not even factor into it. James…  
  
The thought of his lover tailed off, unwanted. Unneeded.  
  
Bending, Lars pushed Billie's hair aside to reach his ear and rested his hands over tattoo-laced upper arms, devilish tongue running along the earlobe. Drawing it into his mouth to nibble briefly on it, he growled softly, absorbing the taste. He slid back, mouth finding Billie's nipple and returning the earlier favour, teeth setting into it with a little more force than had been inflicted in his own pierced skin. His thumbs rubbed absently at the other man's biceps, lips placing hot, slick kisses over his chest.  
  
"What would you do…if I marked you again, Billie?" he asked, voice lilting a little, teeth scraping just barely over skin as he spoke.  
  
The question was a redundant one, Lars knew that before he'd even said it. Truth be told, he didn't really care what Billie would do. He cared what _he_ would do. The boyfriend. Mike. He wanted to see the look on the bassist's face when he saw it, wanted to be there for the reaction. Lars thrived on reactions; it was the reason he skated so very close to the edge with the things he did and said. And so, he didn't wait for a reply.  
  
Teeth cut deep into Billie's flesh, just above his right nipple, sinking in until that unique, warm tang flooded his mouth, stained his lips and the body beneath him bucked in delicious pain.  
  
 _This reaction,_ he thought with black humour, _is going to be fucking beautiful._  
  
Billie shivered as Lars bent over him, mouth skimming along his skin. He sucked in a breath at the question, knowing it for rhetorical, knowing in every inch of his overheated body that the drummer was only giving him a warning, not asking permission.  
  
He didn't get the chance to answer it, chest heaving breathlessly at the assault of teeth instead. He clamped down hard on the urge to cry out. A wet, choked sound emerged anyway and Billie thought distractedly that staying quiet through this encounter was going to rank up there as one of the hardest things he'd ever done.  
  
For a moment, he pictured Mike doing this to him, taking control like this. Taking _him_ like this. The image held for maybe thirty seconds before the cheekbones softened and warm blue slid into green fire. Billie couldn't hold onto it because it didn't ring true: Mike wouldn't do this. Ever.  
  
Mike Dirnt was a sweet, caring lover who made his bedpartners feel cherished, not owned.  
  
There was a pause when Lars withdrew his teeth from Billie's skin, and Billie expected him to move on. Another bite, something different; he didn't know. What he did not expect was for the drummer to stay right there, fucking worrying at the fresh wound, licking, sucking, taking smaller bites around the edges.  
  
Making it as permanent as possible.  
  
It _hurt_ and instinctively he tried to twist away, but the hands that had soothingly stroked his biceps became a dual iron grip holding him down and Billie whimpered, strung out for a few moments in agony until the endorphin rush familiar from his many tattoos kicked in, blurring the edges; the pain slipping into his bloodstream like a drug.   
  
He stopped struggling, panting heavily, and his head felt oddly fuzzy, his skin prickling with heightened awareness. Billie managed a wobbly laugh that sounded rather far away.  
  
"Jesus, Lars, leave me _some_ skin. Fuck."  
  
"If I stopped, you'd fuckin' beg me for more," Lars sneered into the wound, before dragging his tongue over it one more time and sliding back up to find Billie's mouth. Tongues slid together, exchanging tastes, while callused fingers moved to tug roughly at still-buttoned pants. After a few moments of blind struggling, the drummer pulled back to concentrate on removing the garment. He surveyed Billie for a moment through heavy lidded eyes. The other man's lips were reddened, and not just from the press of the kiss.  
  
"How do you taste?" he murmured with amusement, a split second before he grinned widely, his own lips and teeth ghoulishly stained.  
  
Billie's pants were tugged down to his calves before Lars gave up with a muttered curse, not caring as long as he could get _into_ him. The older man had thought about taking the belt and using it, but he'd never much been into that kinky shit. Well, he kind of liked being tied up, but being a mouthy little bitch, he'd usually end up gagged too, which…he didn't so much like. Ah, maybe another time.  
  
The breath rushed from him in a triumphant, hungry hiss as he looked down at the exposed, heated flesh. Shuffling back, he dropped off the table to his feet, lifting Billie's legs and draping them over his shoulders in a bizarre human necklace. There was no need to look around for makeshift lubricant – who the fuck would put anything like that in a cloakroom? – so he made do with what he had. Spitting a few times on his palm, extending his hand and telling Billie to do the same, he rubbed it over his fingers and pulled Billie's ass to the edge of the table. _Little more rough and ready than last time, but he won't fucking complain when I'm done,_ he thought. That thought gave way to another, that cruel demon on his shoulder getting his way again.  
  
As Lars slid his fingers into that taut body, rubbing and scissoring, he wrapped his free hand around Billie's cock and bent down towards it. Hooded, glowing green met fogged hazel. "When was the last time you had sex with him?"  
  
Wicked tongue flicked out to swirl around the head. "Did it make you feel this _good_?"  
  
Punctuating his last, rasped word by pressing his fingers hard up against that torturous little nub inside Billie, his lips dropped down to envelop the younger man's erection in wet heat. He felt the steady _throb-throb-throb_ of his own cock and moaned in delight, pushing his own answer to that question to the back of his mind.  
  
Billie spit obediently, knowing that was all he would get – that he could get, in a venue like this. He wasn't conveniently prepared this time. Even so, there was something inherently, incredibly dirty about it as Lars rubbed their mixed saliva over his fingers. Billie breathed in shallow gulps of air, anticipating the rough invasion.  
  
He moaned when it came, hips jerking in reaction, the simple addition of a callused palm wrapping around his cock swamping him. Then came more of the drummer's pointed, blunt questions, and these ones blindsided him.  
  
"Yesterd—ahhh!" His attempt at an answer dissolved into a high-pitched moan as the drummer's wicked mouth enclosed his cock, the vocalisation a little louder than was safe here. Billie bit down on a knuckle, cramming his own hand in his mouth while he made an effort to control his noise. But the rest played out in his mind.  
  
They'd almost been late for the final rehearsal, because it had taken Billie longer than usual to smother the gentleness with mental sardonic heat, imaginary taunts that he only now realised had acquired a specific voice in the last few years.  
  
The same one that had just rasped at him, that was momentarily silenced by Billie's cock in his mouth right now.  
  
Panting, he tried again, it not occurring to him to not tell the truth. "No, it didn't – it's never—" he paused, jamming the knuckle back into his teeth as Lars delivered a hard punch to his prostate, pleasure shimmying over his skin. Taking a moment to breathe first, Billie finished, "We made love yesterday, but it's never felt like this. He…isn't like this."  
  
He arched when the drummer sucked harder, speech lost in a dizzying swirl of need that spun tighter and higher with every second that passed. Eyelids squeezing shut and then opening as the back of his neck prickled, and he caught a glimpse of shocked blue eyes behind him, staring at his savaged chest and the man between Billie's legs from his vantage point at the cut-out window.  
  
 _Oh, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck._ "Lars." He tugged at the drummer's hair, it having absolutely no effect. "Lars, please. _Mike_."  
  
A corner of Billie's mind noted that what he didn't actually say, was 'stop'.  
  
 _It's never felt like this,_ Lars mentally repeated, stomach doing backflips. _It's never felt like this. Fucking hell, shot in the arm…_  
  
The shot was muted somewhat when the bassist's name reached his ears. Pressing his tongue hard up against Billie's length as he withdrew, the choked noise it elicited sending a curl of heat up his spine, he straightened up and turned his head to nip warningly just above the knee draped over his shoulder. "Thinking about him, now?"  
  
He spat again on his unhindered hand, watching that scarred chest heave and strain for air, utterly oblivious to the spectator they now had. There could have been a tornado that ripped the roof from over their heads, and Lars would not have noticed it right then. The squirming little body beneath him saw to that. Gliding the wet palm over his cock, he pulled his fingers from the tight heat of Billie's ass, replacing their presence with a deliberate push of his hips.  
  
"Ohhh, _fuck_ …" he breathed, hands going to a quivering waist as he sank into Billie, shivering from desire scraped claws down his back. His head rolled to the side and he looked hungrily down at the damn near helpless frontman. "You're gonna come with _me_ on your tongue—"  
  
Any further talk clogged up in Lars's throat as he finally registered another pair of eyes on him, and his eyes flicked up, startled, to find the very bassist he wanted to see but to hear nothing of, staring disbelievingly at them through the cloakroom window. The most beautifully sadistic, victorious smile blossomed over Lars's blood-stained lips. _Oh. Oh, this is the money shot. This is my beautiful reaction._  
  
He flattened himself, draping over Billie's stretched body, mouth going to a pale jawbone and leaving bloody smudges as he gasped and shuddered. Billie tightened hard around him, letting out a strangled moan that was almost a wail, and he knew the younger man was nearing the edge. He looked up into those wide blue eyes, thrusts coming in a sluggish but powerful rhythm, absolutely fearless.   
  
"Do you mind? We'd kind of like some privacy," Lars panted.  
  
The quick snap of teeth at his thigh told Billie that his meaning had been misunderstood even before Lars spoke, but he had no time to explain himself. No time for anything at all as the drummer thrust inside him and though he knew Mike was watching, knew this had to be hurting him in a thousand different ways, Billie could not help but respond, as wantonly as he would have if they'd still been alone.  
  
He was too fucking close, and too far under this man's spell.  
  
Distantly he noticed the drummer's smile, smugness radiating from that crimsoned mouth, and heard him taunt the bassist. The facetious request for privacy broke something loose in him and he tugged Lars down, lips meeting in a hard kiss that cut off any flow of words. _Not Mike, don't talk to Mike, don't mock him, please…_ Nonsense ran through Billie's head and he didn't know if he wanted to spare his longtime lover whatever he could, as ridiculously little as that might be at this point, or if he was jealous of that voice being turned away from him. Both, probably, as well as a certain awareness that Mike was not – could not be – a part of what was happening. He wasn't dirty enough.  
  
Billie was also aware that there was no going back. Not from this.  
  
His hands raked down the drummer's back, clawing his way to the surface to breathe between the successive, relentless swells that washed over him, lifting him toward ecstasy. And then he was there, body arching like a plucked bowstring, hand flying to his mouth to smother a scream as he shook in violent release, completely out of control. As Mike had never seen him in all their years together.  
  
The sound was distorted by his fingers, but the shape of the single syllable was clear enough as Lars's name slipped from Billie's mouth and hung there, tinting the air blood red.  
  
One more smug glance at Mike and Lars looked back down, focus abandoning the bassist and falling on Billie, who arched viciously, whose skin danced with shivers as his orgasm sledgehammered into him. His own name reverberated, muffled, echoing through his consciousness and yanking his pleasure into a faster ascent. _Stare all you want, man. Right now he's_ mine _._  
  
This meant, though, that he didn't see Mike look to the side of him, then back, eyes hooded and cold and aimed at him. That he hadn't heard footsteps, probably drowned out by Billie's smothered cry. That the first thing he did hear was the cloakroom door opening. Looking up with a sly smirk, he expected to see their surprised drummer at the door. What he saw was a tall frame, slick, cropped blond hair, another pair of blue eyes, these ones incredulous and almost outraged. What he saw was James.  
  
And everything just _stopped_.  
  
The rein snapped taut around his desire, choking it off, and as he sat up, for the briefest of milliseconds his gaze flickered into absolute terror. Not of James himself – they'd never, ever had that issue in their relationship – but of the black void of uncertainty that now lay spread before the four of them.  
  
Lars had never been with another man while he was with James. They had both gotten married, sure, and Lars had acted the shameless slut at times, but he'd never slept with any other man. It hadn't even been a question of loyalty – James had been the fucking apple of his eye for nearly twenty years, why would he bother looking elsewhere? Nearly twenty years. Up until that night in the bar when something inside him had snapped.  
  
Thoughts of that night, of _this_ night, of Billie, of anything but James washed from his scattered mind as he pulled from Billie, so fucking close to his own release that tremors took his muscles and made them almost useless. His green eyes were now like that of a scolded teenager, burning with insolence and indignance at being caught, but with a shade of intimidation. James's gaze turned down to the incapacitated, come-spattered Billie, then back to Lars, in some sort of tragicomic bewilderment. Then he surged forward, making Lars's heart turn over, and pulled the legs from around his lover's neck, strong arms tugging the drummer into his chest. A staccato breath rushed into Lars's lungs at that, making his eyes go wide and glassy, and he looked up at James in confusion. The confusion morphed into total shock when thin lips closed over his and a dry palm grasped his still hardened cock. His body went rigid, a wet whine bleeding into James's mouth, and four rough jerks was all it took before he was crying out, a keening wail that almost made his lover's name, hips jerking wildly and spilling himself into that achingly familiar hand.  
  
Fucking the person he'd been so irresistibly attracted to for longer than he would admit, then being finished off by his lover of two decades absolutely blew his mind into a billion pieces. Body going limp, Lars let himself be held up, a dead weight in James's arms. Spasms skittered over him, breath wrought harsh and strained from his lungs. His eyes blank, he let the tail end of his orgasm flow out of him in ebbing waves, clinging to the strong body around him because his mind was too fucked to manage anything else.  
  
The Lars that had loomed over Billie, wild and vicious and taunting, had vanished, and here was the Lars that the drummer had never expected Billie to see – the Lars that belonged to James.   
  
As the frontman cradled his overwhelmed boy, he looked up to Mike, a silent sort of understanding, even commiseration, in his eyes. When they turned to Billie, they were indecipherable but for one odd thing – there was no hate, no anger in that look. His hands moved to Lars's shoulders, guiding him to his feet and towards the door.  
  
"Let's go talk out here," he murmured. Lars looked up at the taller man, awkwardly trying to tug his pants back up as he stumbled out the door.  
  
There was a blankness in James's eyes that Lars couldn't quite understand.


	3. Coming Down Like An Armageddon Flame

For several long minutes, all Billie could manage to do was breathe, and feel. Admittedly his emotions were in a confused welter, all twisted around each other, but even so a few were clear enough to pinpoint beneath the dying remnants of shattering pleasure and the thick layer of shock at how it had all gone so very wrong.  
  
Guilt, fear, mortification, anger; even a smidgeon of sadistic satisfaction swirled inside him.  
  
Most startling was the incredible rush of indignant jealousy at the way James had taken charge of Lars's orgasm – even more surprising than Lars's transformation into someone Billie didn't know. He'd learned firsthand just how fucking easily some switch could be thrown in your head to send you careening into a different aspect of your personality with the right trigger, and James was obviously Lars's trigger. As Lars had been Billie's own. But where he had deliberately cut Mike out of their interaction, Lars had done the opposite and gone straight to James. _His_ Lars had instantaneously disappeared when the other frontman had shown up.  
  
He hissed, thoughts scattering as a napkin sailed through the window and landed on his chest, the corner of the soft fabric striking the open wound. Billie twisted to look up at Mike.  
  
Hurt confusion swam in those blue eyes for a brief moment, until the bassist turned and Billie heard footfalls as he moved away.  
  
The leather jacket proved uncomfortable against the raw patch of skin even through his shirt, but he felt like he needed the armour as he steeled himself to exit the coat room, uncomfortably aware that there were three people waiting for him who'd just watched him go to fucking pieces. His exhibitionist streak tended towards baring his ass onstage, not getting caught fucking by both parties' other lover. Had they really been so stupid as to think no one would know? _God, dude, you are too old to still be thinking with your dick._  
  
Except Billie knew, as he stepped into the ballroom, that it was more complicated than that. Much, much more complicated, as evidenced by the dull ache in his chest at the sight of Lars sitting with James, bodies touching. He remembered feeling an echo of this pain that long ago morning, seeing the way that mention of missing James's phone call had changed the drummer and taken him beyond Billie's purview.   
  
It hurt a hell of a lot more now.  
  
He made his way to the lone occupied table in the shadows, dropping heavily into the chair beside Mike. There was no physical contact between these bandmates and indeed, anxiety knotted in Billie's stomach at the absolute lack of emotion on the bassist's face. Only extreme pain or rage was capable of leaving Mike expressionless. He had a feeling that tonight, it was two for two on that count.  
  
The first time with Lars had been excusable, because that boundary had not yet been defined in Billie and Mike's relationship. This, though, this was a blatant violation of the trust they'd rebuilt and it smashed the promise that he'd made to the man he'd loved for half of his lifetime.  
  
They sat in oppressive silence, until the quietest of them broke it, even his voice lacking inflection as Mike finally spoke. The sound was soft, and deadly.  
  
"I guess I know who to thank now for sending you home looking like a dog's chew toy last time, huh? Or was it even the last time, Billie Joe? Maybe there are some days when your master can control himself as well as he does you."  
  
The silence was so fucking heavy at that table, Lars felt like it was breaking his back. He'd finally gotten his pants buttoned, and instinctively leaned into James once he was done, shoulders pressing together as the bits of his mind finally started falling back into place. Then Mike's words fell out into the stifling air, and he began to wish for the silence again.  
  
Eyes on the table, James's voice reached his ears, voice a little distant. He guessed his lover was looking at Mike in disbelief. "Last time?" The shoulder against his vanished, and Lars suddenly felt cold. The voice turned towards him as it repeated itself. " _Last_ time?"  
  
For a brief, childish second, Lars hated Mike. Really, really _hated_ him. For telling the truth that he himself couldn't. For bringing up what he had put off so many times, bringing it up like it was so fucking easy to say. The hate disappeared quickly enough, mind focussing back on James. If this wasn't so excruciating, Lars might have found dark humour in how earlier, all thoughts of James were forcibly absent from his mind while he devoted himself to Billie. Now it was the complete opposite.  
  
The drummer's eyes turned to look at James's jacket sleeve as he replied quietly.  
  
"When you were in rehab. I was pissed at you for not talking to me. That was all it was," he paused, knowing it for a lie and knowing James wasn't dumb enough to believe it. "If it hadn't been him, it would have been someone else. That was the only other time." Fuck, it sounded so _simple_.  
  
"Well…" James began in a measured voice. "It can't have been all it was, otherwise we wouldn't all be sitting here."  
  
Fucking hell, this felt like therapy all over again. Therapy with your parents. Right after you've made a transgression of monumental, deep set proportions. Which they had. James continued.  
  
"So…may as well get right to the point, not fuckin' dance around the issue…why?"  
  
Lars let out a short, humourless laugh. "You're making it really simple…"  
  
"Was it just to hurt me?"  
  
The smaller man finally looked up to meet James's eyes, his words striking a nerve. "Everything's not always about _you_ —" The regret came instantaneously, plain on his face, biting back any further speech he had. He sighed, pressing his eyes with a thumb and forefinger in muted frustration. "No, James. The first time it might have been, at first, but…no."  
  
"So why, then?"  
  
" _Fucking hell…_ "  
  
" _Why_ , Uli?"  
  
Oh God. That fucking nickname. It bit into him and tore a chunk right out of him, suddenly, absurdly, making this all so much more personal. Lars bit the tip of his tongue and looked away, throat closing up a little. Finally, he looked up at Billie across the table, finding hazel, black-smudged eyes looking right back at him, reflecting his pain and misery. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a second pair of baby blues pointed his way. _Oh, fucking everybody wants to know why, now?_ The sudden attention stung, and Lars came very close to telling them all to fuck off.  
  
He owed James better than that.  
  
Lars's eyes went back to the table, then back to James. He looked right at him and replied.  
  
"I wanted him." He paused. His voice grew just a fraction quieter. "And I needed him."  
  
A silence even more painful than the first blanketed them, wordless reactions reaching out to nobody in particular. Lars saw no-one's but James's. The frontman took in a long, deep breath, and let it out slowly.  
  
"Okay."  
  
It was slowly starting to occur to Lars that James, even the new and improved James Hetfield, was taking this awfully well.  
  
Billie flinched at Mike's vitriolic remarks, and it didn't get any better when Lars flatly announced that it could have been anyone he'd fucked that night. Maybe James would like to have a go at him too, or better yet, Tré could show up and stomp him right into the ground.  
  
But he still looked over at the other pair of bandmates when James pressed for an answer, and the quick glance from miserable green eyes demonstrated that if Lars were lashing out, it was because he was in just as much agony. Maybe even more, because Billie's suspicion had been confirmed that James had known nothing of this until tonight, when he had found them locked intimately together.  
  
Lars answered at last and things…tilted, somehow. _Needed me? Needed me_ how _? What the fuck does that mean?_  
  
He turned his attention back to Mike as his lover leaned his elbows on the table, long fingers steepling in front of him. The thought crossed his mind for about the ten billionth time that the bassist had beautiful hands. Accompanying it was the abrupt tightness in his chest, tension manifesting itself as difficulty breathing. Billie forced himself to take several deep breaths, hoping rather desperately that he could keep it together through whatever was coming and not get hit with a panic attack. Lars didn't even know he suffered from them.  
  
But staring at those hands, memory supplying ready images of the many things they were so good at doing, knowledge settled over Billie like a shroud. He would not be able to fix it this time. Sensitive fingertips wouldn't glide over his naked body with such tenderness that a lump formed in his throat. He wouldn't hear the breathless giggle that could be elicited by ticklish kisses to Mike's inner thigh. There were a hundred different things he suddenly thought of that would never happen again.  
  
What had happened tonight was a deal-breaker, and Billie Joe had known it going in.  
  
A small head movement had his gaze lifting, to be snared by sky blue eyes that showed a shadow of emotion now, none of it pleasant. Mike pointed at James with his chin, gaze remaining locked with Billie's.  
  
"It's a very good question that he asked, 'why'. I'd like to hear your answer, too."  
  
"You already know that. I didn't lie to you, Mike. This wasn't planned. It's the first time we've even spoken since that night and I didn't expect – it just happened."  
  
His eyes softened a bit as he nodded. "I know you didn't lie to me, Billie. And I'm sorry about what I said; that was uncalled-for. But I think that you've been lying to yourself and I want to hear the real reason why."  
  
It sounded so goddamned reasonable put like that, in that inimitable Dirnt way that drove him fucking nuts, especially when he didn't _know_ the answer. Nevertheless, he owed it to Mike to try for one.  
  
Billie closed his eyes, reaching inward. He sucked on his bottom lip, something he often did when thinking, and the faint taste of blood provided the clue that clicked it into place.  
  
He kept his eyes closed as he spoke, the words ghosting out just above a whisper. "He made me feel completely alive for the first time in years. I wanted to feel like that again."  
  
Inside his own head, he admitted that he still wanted it, possibly even more than he had when he'd traded a cigarette for the taste of the drummer's lips. But he certainly didn't say that aloud, and his focus stayed on Mike. Twenty-four years of friendship demanded at least that much amongst its ruins.  
  
Green, abruptly panicked eyes shot up, and Lars _was_ panicked. He was scared, even, by what Billie had said. _Completely alive? Oh my God…what the…what_ is _this? What_ are _we? Is…that what we've been doing? That's what was happening? He…completely alive?_  
  
Broken thoughts clattered one by one from his brain, nonsensical even strung together, those two words flickering with violent speed just behind his eyes. A self-imposed veil lifted, and the gravity, the true impact on all four parties, and on his own emotions, was finally starting to hit home.  
  
 _Is that why I want him?_  
  
 _Is that why I_ need _him?_  
  
A tiny choking sound squeezed from his tight throat, something he tried to pass off as a cough. He forced his gaze back to James, swiveling his body so he couldn't easily glance at the source of his confusion. His _other_ lover. Because that's what Billie was, wasn't it? A lover. _His_ lover. Lars had never given Billie that title in his head, probably because it scored a line of definitive weight under what they had done. Made it more than what Lars had told himself it was – a fling, next to nothing, emotionally void. It was just a _thing_ , you know? A silly thing that happened from misery and alcohol and clearly got out of hand.  
  
The very _second_ Lars had pushed down his own burgeoning machismo and curled around Billie in that starchy-covered motel bed, it had become more than that. And realising that took Lars's brain and punted it right out of the park.  
  
James pulled him back from spiralling thoughts.  
  
"Kirk told me you two had headed out into the lobby. I wondered why you'd disappear without telling me, and now I guess I know." He sighed again. "I sort of wish you'd told me before…but then I wonder, from what he said," he glanced over at Billie, "if it would have made any difference."  
  
Lars held onto his arms, leaning forward, eyes travelling dully over James's covered arms and visualising the tattoos beneath. A slight frown created a little crease between his eyebrows. "Are you even angry with me?"  
  
James sounded weary and resigned. He sat back in his chair, rubbing absently at his thigh. "Yeah, I am. But…fuck, more than anything, I think I'm disappointed."  
  
That stung. Lars bristled indignantly. "Don't do that, don't act like you're my fucking mother. I _want_ you to be angry with me, I think that's what I deserve."  
  
"That's what you expect, right?"  
  
"Do you blame me?" Lars returned, exasperation making his voice rise. "Could you fuckin' stop asking me shit and giving me these…blank opinions and fuckin' give me something tangible? I don't know what to think, I don't know what to do for you when you're still being this fuckin'…stilted, overly rational fuckin' emotionless asshole!"  
  
He didn't mean that. Not quite that harshly, anyway. He hissed in despair, head dropping into his hands as James glared incredulously at him.  
  
"That's what you really want? You want the old James back? That fucker, you prefer him over me?"  
  
" _No_ , I—"  
  
"I can't fuckin' believe you, all that work we did, and…" James shook his head and looking away. His voice dropped, hurt. "I can't even believe you'd say that, man."  
  
Desperation pulled Lars's eyes to the ceiling, maybe hoping for some god to come down and pluck him from this branch of existence. He reached out to lay a hand on James's arm, words not forthcoming. He hoped in vain that the gesture was enough. It became evident that it wasn't. The frontman glanced around at Billie and Mike, suddenly looking uncomfortable. He pushed his chair back and rose.  
  
"I think we should talk about this later. Better get back before Kirk thinks there's something up."  
  
Lars's stomach clenched, and as James began to walk for the door, he twisted and grasped his sleeve tightly.  
  
"Wait, don't, you can't bail, not yet—" he said, voice taut. James pulled free and carried on, regardless. Lars threw an utterly desperate, almost terrified look at Billie, before stumbling after his lover. "James, _please_!"  
  
He managed to catch the frontman's arm after a few steps, pulling him to a halt and unashamedly pressing himself into that broad chest. His fingers curled instinctively into the silk shirt, swallowing away the tightness in his throat and trying to slow his heart. He spoke quietly.  
  
"We're not done. I can't wait for a resolution. I need to know…I need to know what's gonna happen, okay?"  
  
His insides loosened when James's arms came to drape around his shoulders. The drummer's head rose and fell as the taller man breathed. This felt…fractured.  
  
"I hoped it wasn't going to happen like this," James murmured, running his hand through his lover's hair.  
  
Lars's eyes went wide. An enormous boulder dropped in his stomach as a creeping realisation drew icy fingers up his back. The blankness, the calmness. _Oh my God. This whole time, he…that comment back in the ballroom, how he didn't think he was going to get another scar like that again…he meant…_  
  
Oh my God…  
  
Billie heard the squeak that emerged from Lars when he answered Mike's question but he didn't glance over, unable to process any of the drummer's possible responses at the moment. His eyelashes fluttered open to look at Mike instead.  
  
A wealth of emotion shone from those blue eyes now; such incredible pain that his heart constricted and his throat clogged up upon seeing it. He bit his lip, feeling like the biggest asshole on the planet, but Mike had wanted – had _deserved_ – the truth, though it was a harsh one.  
  
"Mike…" he whispered, aching to hold him and soothe away the hurt. Only, Billie was what had caused it and he'd given up his right to touch by doing so.  
  
"I feel fucking blindsided but hindsight is 20/20, like they say. I can," he halted, gaze flickering away, his voice low and rough when he continued. "I can see signs, looking back. That you were getting restless. That you weren't totally happy. At the time I guess I attributed it to stress, I mean we had so much shit going on after the record exploded that everyone was kinda off."  
  
Mike shook his head, his spiked hair shivering with the movement. "But that wasn't it, was it? And it didn't really have anything to do with sex either, did it? If I'd known you wanted…" he trailed off, swallowing hard and Billie fought back the twinned rise of tears and bile when Mike stared at his chest, right where it throbbed yet from Lars's teeth. "I would have tried."  
  
"I know." He did know, but he had never asked. Partly because it wasn't something he wanted to have to explain – he wanted his bedpartner to understand it instinctively, because by deliberately asking an element of the experience was removed. Another part was that Billie still didn't really understand it himself. One night had been enough to serve as an awakening, not an education.  
  
More important than either aspect was the core truth that his lover had already realised: it had nothing to do with sex. Sex was only a symptom of the deeper problem.  
  
A shaky exhalation had Billie twisting his hands in his lap, desperate to make it stop. He hated this, hated so fucking passionately that it hurt just to breathe. The mere movement of air in and out of their lungs shouldn't feel this hard to do.  
  
"Were you ever going to tell me? If you hadn't seen him tonight, if the issue hadn't been forced open like this, would you have told me how you were feeling? Or let it keep on slipping until there was nothing left and we hated each other?"  
  
Billie's solar plexus contracted sharply, as though the blow had been physical. He wasn't even aware that they were alone at the table as he stared at Mike, wholly frozen by those questions, sickened by the idea that they could grow to hate each other, that something that had afforded such beauty in his life could harbour the potential for that kind of ugliness. It sucked out his ability to speak.  
  
Lars was oblivious to all this, the pain and the mutual agony happening just feet away. His own world had suddenly just started to collapse in on itself, and he could care less if a nuclear winter had just blanketed the Californian coastline. The parallel breakdowns in Billie's and Lars's relationships were so similar, but neither of them would know, not right then at least – there was nothing outside the person with them, nothing at all.  
  
The drummer stayed where he was for a handful of long moments after James's words. He attempted to speak, for once in his life failing. The distinct lack of the smell of alcohol on James, though a standard for two years now, jarred through him sharply. He pulled back to look up at the other man directly, a deep, hazy sadness in his eyes that seemed to age him terribly. His hands slipped down to his sides.  
  
"What are you saying to me?" he asked, voice small and cracked around the edges.  
  
James's face creased a little. "We can't fuckin' do this anymore."  
  
Words that echoed deafeningly in Lars's head, over and over, until they overlapped and stopped making sense. Fuck, that was the tangible something that he'd been asking for, right? His mind twisted, curved, burned, turned icy cold, overwhelmed with emotions and slamming down on any response he might ever coherently form. James was still speaking.  
  
"…in rehab, everything getting stirred up. I never told anybody about us, not anyone, and it's only recently that I've been able to even _think_ about us. And we…or at least, I…can't do this. I've thought about this a lot, a fuck of a lot, and I've wanted to talk to you about it. But…" Here he shook his head in mild frustration. "…the movie, the tour, it was all so crazy for so long that we never really got five minutes of downtime where we could talk, _really_ talk. And…your divorce, and what happened to you on the plane going over to England…I could see how fucking weighed down you were by all this shit and I didn't wanna add to it. I didn't wanna cause you more pain."  
  
James paused, blue eyes dropping down to his feet. He grew quieter. "I was going to wait until our last couple shows were done. I guess…it was supposed to happen sooner." Blue met green again and a reason was finally forthcoming. "I'm married. I haven't been honouring that commitment. And I have to. Uli, we can be there for each other as best friends, as bandmates, in a thousand different ways…but not in that way anymore."  
  
Lars stood there, attempting to formulate a reply, attempting to string together some thoughts. Finally, he gestured in Billie's vague direction.  
  
"He's married too," he said weakly. The best he could manage. James shrugged lightly.  
  
"That's his deal."  
  
Lars looked down, around, bewildered. He honestly could not gather his thoughts, and settled back on whatever emotions were screaming silently through him. He looked up, expression still disbelieving.  
  
"But I fucking _need_ you…"  
  
James looked pained for a moment, the blue of his eyes going sharp, and he reached out to pull Lars into him again. This time it was a tight hug, one of regret, one of attempted comfort, one that Lars did not return. He then murmured something into Lars's ear that stopped the drummer's fractured mind in its tracks.  
  
"You need _him_ , don't you?"  
  
Then strong arms were gone from around him, James moved back, pressing a brief, cold kiss to Lars's forehead, saying something about talking more later after the party, Lars pleaded pathetically again, and the door closed behind his lover.  
  
His ex-lover.  
  
Lars stood, utterly useless, shirtless and torn in half. He glanced over his shoulder to the table, then turned and shuffled towards the cloakroom. He'd intended on picking up his shirt and jacket and crawling miserably back to his room. He didn't make it that far – in fact, he didn't make it back out of the cloakroom. Sitting down heavily on the table, he stared blankly at the ground and gripped the side until his knuckles whitened.  
  
Unaware still of anything but the blue eyes in front of him, Billie searched frantically for words and when at last he found them, they tumbled out like shooting stars, burning his throat as they exited.  
  
"Mike, I've known you since I was ten goddamned years old. Since even before my father died. I only _have_ a handful of clear memories that don't involve you in some way, from my early childhood. You've been my fucking rock for almost all of my life so it isn't that simple, all right? I don't know how to live a life that doesn't have you in it; I can't. I can't lose you, and I didn't…excuse me if it was taking me some time to try to work it out in my own head. I didn't want to hurt you and I didn't know what the hell I was doing, how to even bring it up when in most ways things were better than they'd been in ages and fuck, I just wasn't sure how I really felt."  
  
He paused, running an agitated hand through his hair, fingers catching on the tousled, flattened spikes. "I needed to be sure before I said anything, and, I hadn't been."  
  
Mike's expression held a dawning understanding as Billie finished in a whispered rush. "Mikey, I can't lose you. I will love you for the person you are until the day I die, but I can't…I just, I can't—"  
  
"Brothers for life," the bassist interjected.  
  
"What?"  
  
Blue eyes looked at him – looked through him, a strange tranquility mixed with the pain. "You said that. Called the three of us brothers for life. You remember?"  
  
The wry hint of a smile cracked his lips. "Yeah. Tré made incest jokes for the rest of the night and kept trying to shove his tongue down my throat."  
  
"Yeah." An equally brief chuckle. "But that, you really meant it, didn't you?"  
  
Billie closed his mouth, the bassist's impatient wave forestalling his automatic support of the statement. He wasn't following this line of thought so well and he waited for Mike to explain.  
  
"Incest jokes aside, you meant that, in the larger sense. That's how you really feel about us, about me and you, our relationship now. Like brothers."  
  
He nodded, floored at the insight. "Yeah, I…yeah. I do."  
  
Mike echoed the nod and a small smile trembled on his thin mouth as he dug something out of his pocket, folding it into Billie's hand. The abrupt contact had that massive knot in his chest tightening and tightening, the ache spreading as those long, once-beloved fingers cupped his cheek and his former lover leaned in, lips meeting his with the same tenderness he'd always shown. Overwhelmed, Billie whimpered into the kiss.  
  
It wasn't a sound of desire and Mike withdrew, fingertips skimming along the smooth jaw with pained acceptance. "Better wipe your face before you leave here, you're kind of a mess." He attempted another smile. "I'm going to stay with Tré. We'll talk again soon, okay? Figure something out, where to go from here."  
  
With that he rose, and long strides took the tall form to the ballroom door and out in no time at all. Billie shifted his attention to the object in his hand, recognising the key card for his hotel room. Mike always carried them because both Billie and Tré tended to lose them somewhere.  
  
He stared at it, remembering an alternate echo of leave-taking from that first night with Lars, only this held a level of anguish that his relationship with the drummer didn't yet have the power to achieve.  
  
Billie crumpled, forehead thunking into the crook of his elbow on the table as air sobbed through his open mouth and he tried desperately not to break apart right then and there.  
  
Lars dimly heard the continuing, quiet conversation that echoed faintly around the darkened ballroom. He couldn't make out exactly what was being said; he didn't really want to. It felt intrusive. But he could tell by the tone, the hushed, almost reverential talk that tiptoed out like that at a funeral, that Billie's fate was probably not going to be dissimilar to his.  
  
He tried not to think. If he thought, he would realise, and he would understand, and he would break. He wasn't going to break. Not here, not now. He stared intently at the worn carpet floor, unmoving, not thinking about how the love of his life had just ended their two decade long relationship, the ultimate catalyst of this being the little oddly assembled, spiky, not-so-scrawny purveyor of punk rock sat out there in the ballroom. Probably getting his heart broken.  
  
He tried not to think about that.  
  
A sharp, taut ache bled into his awareness, and not from his chest. Looking down, he uncurled his fingers from the table's edge, wincing as he flexed them back into life. He hadn't even realised he'd been gripping the edge quite so hard. It had barely even registered that he'd sat down. As he did begin to compute his surroundings, he heard quick footsteps followed by the ballroom door, squeaking in movement. The noise seemed to shake him out of his inertia, and he dropped to his feet, moving to the end of the table to pick up his shirt from where it had been dropped seemingly hours ago. In reality, it was probably only around forty minutes. Even as he pushed his arms into the sleeves, impassivity waged war with grief in his mind, his throat constricting again. He tried swallowing it away, failing. Everything felt tight and sharp and hot, unbearable, spreading through every inch of him, and…  
  
His hands stopped at the first button on his shirt, eyes having raised. He found himself in front of the cut-out window, and perfectly framed in the middle among all the stretching shadows and slivers of light, the scattered chairs and unpolished tables, alone, sat his folly. His catalyst. His _lover_.  
  
The word held ugliness for Lars right then.  
  
The drummer let his arms drop to his sides as he watched Billie, head buried in his arm, back rising and falling with heaved breaths. Lars's chest grew tighter still, and green eyes narrowed.  
  
"Fuckin' stop it," he said. The barely audible sound of his voice belied the damning vitriol in his tone. "How did you think this was going to end? With everybody okay, everybody undamaged? Right. You knew it was going to end bad. You were dumb enough to take the risks and now there's consequences that you don't like. What are you gonna do, sit and mope and cry about it? Useless. Just fucking _stop it_."  
  
Lars wasn't talking to Billie – the frontman most likely wouldn't have heard him anyway. He wasn't even sure if he was talking to himself. The words had rolled out of their own accord, needing a release, needing to exist. They didn't help. His chest began to hurt. Suddenly, his hand was on the door handle, he was back out in the ballroom, and he was slowing to a stop halfway between the occupied table and the cloakroom. Caught in a streak of artificial light from outside, he watched Billie's barely shaking form, his eyes unflinching, his face tight.  
  
"I'm still in love with him," he stated, voice brittle. "You and your boy came back from the brink. Now it's all _fucking_ gone and I have to ask myself if it was worth it."  
  
He paused for a long time, swallowed, hands tightening into fists at his sides. Bitter contempt for himself, for Billie, for all of it was scrawled all over his face.  
  
"What do you think, huh?"  
  
He tried so fucking hard not to think.  
  
Billie's head snapped up at the snarl and rage unfurled inside him. Did Lars think this was fun for him, or that he was the only one who was hurting? He swiveled on the chair, hardened hazel eyes boring holes into the drummer.  
  
It felt good to be angry; a hell of a lot better than being broken.  
  
"What do I think? What do I _think_? I think that I just told the man who's been my right arm since I was in fucking elementary school to take a walk because I'm not in love with him anymore. I think that I have no goddamned clue how to go about the simple business of living without him being there, but I'd better learn fast 'cause he's gone."  
  
He pushed a hand through his tangled hair in frustration. "I'm sorry if James couldn't deal or whatever. But as you said so eloquently earlier, it takes two to tango, and _you_ came to _me_ tonight, Lars. You came outside after me and you kissed me and I," Billie faltered, face scrunching as his eyes closed briefly. When he continued, a good deal of the fury had been leached from his voice. "And I didn't say no, so it doesn't fucking matter who started it."  
  
He looked at the shrunken, bristling figure, unable to not acknowledge that he was in pain too, even if the other man could not do the same. "Was it worth it? I don't fucking know, dude. I don't know anything right now."  
  
Guilt socked him in the stomach because that wasn't the whole truth and he sighed, acquiescing to his inner voice. Might as well get kicked while he was down.  
  
In a quiet monotone, he admitted, "That's not entirely true. I know that I'm the world's biggest ass because I still want you, even after all this shit."  
  
Lars looked aside, out to the windows, fatalistic grin splitting his face.  
  
"Fucking awesome. Thanks," he replied sardonically, shaking his head. "And for your information, Hetfield could deal, he dealt very fucking well. Let me bring you up to speed."  
  
He began to walk slowly towards Billie, and recounted exactly what had happened between he and James, almost word for word. By the end, Lars had reached the table, pacing around near it, humourless giggles peppering his words. "…so basically it turns out that that motherfucker was planning on breaking it off with me anyway…for, like, five or six months! Which means what we did tonight, flirting, kissing, fucking – didn't even _factor in_ for him! Y'know, you're right, it didn't matter who started it. It didn't matter at all, it was a moot point…all it did was actually give him the balls to do it. I'm sure he'd thank you if he was still here, man!"  
  
He shook his head again, stopping in his tracks. "Okay, you know what, your arm? I'm sorry if you just lost it. But you just got woken up to how you really feel about him, and that's healthy. It'll feel healthy when it stops fucking hurting. I'm still in love with James, and I begged him not to go. I pleaded with him. And he still fucking went with that… _blank_ look on his face, like it was all so fucking _easy_ for him. Like none of it mattered. Because he'd already decided that he didn't fucking love me enough _half a year ago_."  
  
Some of that was untrue. Some of it was exaggerated, he knew that. The pain made him vindictive and it made it easier. Kept him from breaking, for at least a little while longer. _Please, just a little while longer…_  
  
The grin was gone from his lips once his tirade had stopped, replaced by gritted teeth, a grimace. He slumped down onto a nearby chair, physically exhausted, bitter rage temporarily spent. Billie's revealing words from the excruciating discussion came back to him. _He made me feel completely alive…_  
  
James had never said that to him.  
  
Drawing his lip into his mouth, he chewed on it a little, then spoke quietly, eyes on the table beside him. "I'd really like to say that I'm sorry for this, all of this. But then I'd be a fuckin' liar." Those eyes travelled to Billie, noticing for the first time that he was wearing his shirt and jacket. His voice dropped even more, as if the mention of it was now taboo.  
  
"Is your chest okay?"  
  
Billie ached even more as the drummer ranted, details about the ending of his own relationship spit out in the same kind of rage that Billie had just let go. He simply listened; he knew that it would help Lars get through it if he were angry, and he knew enough of his personality to realise that he needed a target. If that target were Billie for the moment then so be it. It wasn't like he had something better to do, and besides he cared about Lars's feelings.  
  
That last part rolled around in his head, repeating itself silently. _I care about his feelings. Is that what made me finally start to understand how I felt about Mike? Did I notice that I was only going through the motions because of how Lars made_ me _feel?_ With a near-physical shock, he understood that that was true, and that he cared about the older man's feelings because he cared about _Lars_ , period.  
  
 _Oh, shit. Nice work, Armstrong._  
  
A half smile twisted his mouth at the statement that Lars wasn't sorry, and it grew more lopsided at the question about his chest. It'd been hurting so much on the inside that he'd more or less forgotten about the chunk bitten out of his skin, but now he became aware of the dull throb and the way his shirt had stuck to it underneath the jacket. That was going to be unpleasant coming off.  
  
He shrugged. "Stings like a son of a bitch. I'll clean it up when I go upstairs." He waved the keycard with false brightness. "Got a room to myself now."  
  
The bravado drained away as quickly as it had appeared and he slumped. "I'm sorry about James; I think it was really shitty of him to string you along like that when he knew what he wanted. And that's just, it's something you're going to have to learn to live with, much like I am. But I'm not…" His eyes rose to meet shadowed green, holding them steady. Saying more than he knew or was perhaps even ready to show yet. But the revelation of his own feelings – all of them – and the news that he hadn't been Lars's only bedpartner today, not to mention the too-vivid memory of the drummer being finished off by the man who had then proceeded to stomp on his heart, had Billie's emotional control at an all-time low. "I'm not sorry about what happened between us, either. Not any of it."  
  
Lars's eyes had grown dark as Billie spoke of James, back going stiff, as if nobody had the right to talk about them, nobody. The stiffness subsided, a weary resignation taking its place that talking about something that was in the past tense really didn't matter. It hurt like hell, but it really didn't matter.  
  
 _Past tense. Fuck. Yeah, it's actually over. Second relationship in a year that's gone down the drain. I have my band, that's for sure, but I've got no wife and now I've got no James. No intimate relationship at all but for this guy right here. And it's not even a relationship, is it? Not truly, not yet. It's angry sex with awkward, confusing feelings scattered all over the place, like we're fucking teenagers or something. He's got a wife. But I don't have anyone in that special way except for him. So I guess I need him more than before. More than just needing how he tastes, how he squirms, how he smells. I need how he laughs, how he wakes up in the morning, how he does his hair, how he eats a sandwich, how he ties his shoes. How he looks at me and says nothing, but everything's there for me to hear. I need him to give me everything that's just been taken from me.  
  
Because he's the only person I've ever met in the last twenty years that I've felt that spark for, that heat. The only person who I've felt could maybe, _maybe _give me what James does.  
  
What James did.  
  
Oh fuck, I'm thinking._  
  
Sure enough he was, and sure enough, as he faded back into reality, he felt the backs of his eyes pricking, felt that they had grown red and sore from restrained tears. He blinked dazedly, suddenly acutely aware of Billie's gaze on him, and let his head roll back to thunk onto the chair's backrest. Rubbing his face, pressing fingers over his eyes, he swallowed and let a deep breath stutter in and out of him. His chest still ached, his heart throbbed listlessly, and he muttered something in Danish along with something about 'ten kinds of fucked up'. He raised his head and sniffed after a while, eyes going to the younger man's chest again. He spoke softly.  
  
"I feel like I should clean your chest for you. S'my fault, after all," he paused, eyeing the other man carefully. "What do you think?"  
  
The second time he'd asked that since leaving the cloakroom, this time holding no malice at all, only tentative enquiry. He knew that his words could imply a lot more, and with the right tone, they would have; but right then they implied nothing but a desire to make amends. To fix someone if not himself, and to fix something physical if not mental.  
  
Billie saw the moment that it sank in for Lars, that reality hit with that sucker punch it always seemed to have and his hands twitched with the urge to comfort. Instead he watched and waited until the drummer had regained some control.  
  
The offer to clean him up, the tentative tone; both took him off guard. He was about to brush it off when it occurred to him that maybe Lars was like Tré in that way, needing something tangible to do, to _fix_ , when he was truly upset.  
  
"That would be good. I have—" he stopped, a rueful smile appearing. Sheepishly he rubbed a hand over his hair. "I have a first aid kit in my room, if you don't mind coming up. Not for…I don't mean, you know, anything…"  
  
He cut off the verbal fumbling with a short laugh at the irony. "God. You know what I mean. Next time I'll invite you somewhere other than my hotel room, I swear."  
  
The reference to the future slipped out of its own accord and he tensed, completely unsure if either of them was ready to talk of such things. Billie covered it with a smile.  
  
"I'll be just a sec, I need to wipe off my face before showing it in public again." He rose and snagged a napkin from the sideboard, heading for the mirrored wall at one end of the ballroom, exhaling in surprise at the bloody smudges across his jaw. He didn't quite remember getting them; things had gotten kinda fuzzy by that time. He'd been too overloaded with sensation to know where it was all coming from.  
  
Face more or less clean, Billie finger-combed his hair, attempting some semblance of order, before giving up. He pulled the jacket aside, grimacing at the irregular patch of shirt flattened against his skin. Gingerly he touched it, air hissing through his teeth at the surge of pain. Maybe it really would be a good idea for someone else to clean it, so he didn't wuss out and end up not doing it properly.  
  
Returning to the table, he remained standing and looked at Lars. "Do we need to stagger departures or does it matter anymore?" No one who might see them would have any idea of what they'd been up to in this room, not the mind-blowing sex nor the broken relationships. The only question was whether or not they should be seen together in public, and the deeper part of that was whether or not there was any possibility of them ever being seen together again.  
  
The drummer watched Billie go, watched him tidy himself half-heartedly. It reminded him about his own disarray, the smears of blood now dark and sticky on his chin. Taking a far more cavalier approach, Lars merely licked the palm of his hand and scrubbed at his face. As he did this, he murmured aloud.  
  
"Next time, huh?"  
  
It was sort of…not quite wistful, but definitely curious. He hadn't truly expected Billie to be thinking about that. Or, at least, he hadn't given thought to Billie thinking about it. Hadn't really had the chance yet. On one hand it gave him a little hope, on the other, apprehensiveness. He pushed the thoughts away for now as he heard the reactional gasp of pain from the other man. His mind went back to the wound being made, his teeth worrying at slick, hot skin, sucking out blood with vampiric decadence. He'd be kidding himself if he said he didn't know what he was doing; it was instinctive, he felt he had to mark Billie for himself. He'd known every second while he was doing it that it had felt glorious and that he would keep at it and keep at it, bite and lick and suck until that thing was made permanent. Regardless of who might have seen it. Regardless of who thought they had Billie.  
  
He was finishing buttoning up his shirt when Billie returned to him with that question. He thought about it for a moment, rising to his feet and fucking around with his collar. A scowl flitted across his face as he looked off into the middle distance, hands shoving into his pockets and balling into secret fists.  
  
"I don't care who sees us," Lars growled, bitter disdain in his voice. He strolled over towards the cloakroom to fetch his jacket, affecting indifference. "Let them think what the fuck they want."  
  
Hooking his finger into the jacket's collar and slinging it over his shoulder, he cast his gaze around the bare room for a second or two – at that suddenly meaningful table – and walked out. Green eyes travelled along the hardwood floor with his feet as he scuffed along back towards the younger man. They raised to meet bright hazel when he slowed to a stop a few feet in front of him, hazel that now affected him profoundly. He resisted the pull to dip in and press a supportive kiss to Billie's throat; God knows they both kind of needed support right then. Instead he gave a little smile that didn't quite seem real.  
  
"Lead the way."  
  
 _Fuck it all and fucking no regrets,_ he supposed.   
  
Billie took in the small smile, the studied casualness of the jacket flung over the drummer's shoulder, the total dismissal of anyone else's opinion, and he couldn't help but smile back. What the fuck was he getting himself into here? He didn't know, but for once that was okay. He was content to let it play out and see where it took them.  
  
A decisive nod answered Lars's last comment and Billie Joe turned on his heel, striding from the ballroom the same way he'd entered it a lifetime ago: head high, smile in place, moving with a purpose. He could feel Lars a step behind him, then beside him as they reached the foyer and pushed through it without incident.  
  
It didn't feel quite so much like walking the gauntlet this time.


	4. Let You Breathe My Air

Billie dropped his jacket on the nearest flat surface upon entering the room, grunting softly as the motion pulled on his shirt where it stuck to him. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll grab the kit."  
  
Along with getting out the first aid supplies, Billie took two minutes to scrub off his makeup, doing it so fast that his eyes stung from the remover. He splashed water over them and hastily dried his face.  
  
The ablutions also served as a short reprieve because he'd noticed the second he'd turned the lights on that things were missing, added, and rearranged. Mike had collected all of his belongings that had migrated into Billie's room, and returned the favour as well. Billie knew that if he went to the door that opened into the other room, he would find it locked from the far side, all entrance barred to him.  
  
It felt final. It _was_ final, and it still hurt. It would for a while yet.  
  
But it wasn't his focus right now. Mike needed some space before they could even talk about what happened next, room to breathe and think and sort through his feelings. Billie needed that too, but not as strongly because tonight had seen the crystallisation of things that had been a long time coming in his own heart.  
  
Subdued by the thoughts running in circles in his head, he left the bathroom and placed the small kit, a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a handful of cotton pads on the small table beside the arm chair where the drummer had sat down. With a wry shrug, he screwed up his face in anticipation of pain and peeled off his shirt.  
  
When Lars had dropped himself into the chair, habit had taken over and he'd folded his legs underneath him, elbows settling on his thighs while he waited. It took a few moments of listening to the almost silence, the quiet splashing sounds in the bathroom, before a memory sprouted up in his head.  
  
James had seen him sitting like that in a chair once and commented, with amusement, that the drummer looked like an elf. Quietly indignant, Lars had sneered at him. Oh, another slur on his height, how original. Must've taken Hetfield years to think up that one. Trouble was, James had seen the flicker of indignance on Lars's face before he'd masked it, and proceeded to tease him mercilessly about it for three whole weeks afterwards, whenever the smaller man would forget and sit like that, and sometimes not even then. Tight grin on his face, Lars had mostly taken it in his stride, occasionally exclaiming in mock-outrage that he wasn't Jason and he wasn't the one who should be treated like that. He'd gotten his own back on the last night of the third week, though. It was why James hadn't mentioned it since, and also why he had a small scar on his chest.  
  
 _"Nnngh…ah…I'm not a fucking elf, you…ahh, fucking cocksucker…shit…I'm the fucking Leprechaun and…ahh!...I'm gonna bite your goddamn nipple off!"_  
  
Eyes going hazy, Lars shook his head and uncrossed his legs, setting his feet flat in the floor. No, no, no, he didn't want to think about all that yet. He didn't need to. He _would_ think about it, for sure – Phil had taught them well enough to go into the darkness, to embrace their fears, and it would eventually get rid of them. There was time to think all about it when he and James next spoke, whenever that might be. Right then, he needed to be diverted from those thoughts. Right then, he needed a distraction.  
  
Another memory slammed into him, vivid and blinding. That darkened booth, those insistent hands, stretching Billie open underneath him, dark fire burning just beneath the surface of his skin and dimming his eyes. _"We came here…because we wanted distraction."_  
  
Lars's eyes widened before rolling at himself in exasperation. He shook his head harder.  
  
 _Fucking hell, shut up—!_  
  
Luckily for him, Billie re-entered the room, depositing all the stuff on the table next to him. Once the frontman had gingerly removed his shirt, wincing and biting back whimpers as the fabric clung tenaciously to the wound, Lars got to his feet and instructed Billie to sit down in his seat and lean back so he could see what he was doing. Turning, he strode over to the sleek stereo in the corner, clicking it on and twisting the radio tuning dial until the static squeaked into Def Leppard's _Animal_ , and what he guessed was the classic rock station. Dicking around briefly with the volume – not deafening, just as background music – bass and treble, Lars nodded in satisfaction and came back to Billie. "I hate the silence," he said by way of explanation.  
  
Eyes dropping to the reopened wound, one thin trail of blood slowly making its way down Billie's chest, he thought it better not to drop to his knees and just lick it up, as he'd initially, instinctively thought to do. As if the fates were laughing at their expense, no sooner had the thought appeared in his head than the song faded out and Kiss's _Lick It Up_ took its place. Lars blinked, and after a beat, a laugh sputtered from him. "Holy fuck, that's not even funny…" he grinned, picking up one of the cotton pads. This time, the smile was genuine. He rested one knee against the chair and bent down.  
  
"Okay, if this gets too bad…" he murmured, using the pad to soak up the trickle of blood, "…you just bite your lip and think of Oakland."  
  
A frown of concentration creasing his brow, the drummer reached for the bottle of peroxide, dabbing a little of it onto a clean pad. Placing his free hand against Billie's chest to steady him, he focussed his attention entirely on the wound and carefully went to work.  
  
At the first touch of the peroxide, Billie did bite his lip, teeth setting into the fullness at the wicked sting. He breathed shallowly from the diaphragm, not wanting to move his chest too much while Lars worked.  
  
He had caught the flicker of hunger when the older man had looked at the wound, the musical clue providing context, and wondered if he'd always been a biter. If a small child with defiant green eyes had been reprimanded for such behaviour and it had then hidden, waiting for the child to grow up enough for sex to get involved.  
  
Think of Oakland, he'd said, but Billie didn't want to because Oakland meant Mike as much as anything else and he'd had enough of thinking about that for the night. There wasn't any more he could do about it so he shoved it down. Time enough for thoughts of Mike later, when he could better deal with them.  
  
The gentle stroke of dampened cotton steadied into a smooth rhythm that had him feeling almost sleepy. It didn't hurt less, exactly, but it formed a consistent buzz of sensation that he could sort of tune out, a warmth spreading through him. He relaxed, letting his head fall back against the chair, mouth opening to release his trapped bottom lip and a soft sound because it felt…pleasant, almost.  
  
"Mmm. I should tell you…" He frowned, having lost his train of thought. "N'er mind, I forget."  
  
He closed his eyes, sinking a little deeper. This was a stark contrast to their first time together, when Lars had insulted him and he'd cleaned himself up before warily climbing back into the bed. Except the drummer had curled around him instead of kicking him out or insulting him further, and maybe that was the moment when everything changed. Or maybe it had been a little earlier than that, when he'd realised that the answer to his silent question was yes, Lars could take everything he threw at him and more, and Billie had simply let go.  
  
Mind fogged in from the steady stream of low-grade pain and memories, he didn't even consider what he was asking, or how it might be taken, before it was out there. He thought of it, wanted it, and said it. "Would you stay the night? Please."  
  
"Hmm?" Lars hadn't really been listening at all, concentrating as he was on the task in front of him. He'd sort of vaguely registered Billie's words – a corner of his mind wondered what Billie had been going to say before he'd trailed off – the little questioning noise was just an automatic response. It took him repeating it to himself to process what had been asked. "Stay the night?"  
  
He paused, only for a second. Then carried on smoothing over the wound, around it, picking up bits of dirt and lint with each motion. After a few moments of thought, he answered. "I don't know…" He paused again, licking his lips contemplatively, wadding up the used pad and tossing it onto the table. He took another, adding peroxide again, and continued to clean, leaning in closer to see and remove the miniscule bits of fluff from Billie's shirt that were still caught in the broken skin. The quiet became uneasy, even with the radio playing, so he spoke again.  
  
"I mean, it's not like you're asking me to go steady or whatever, but still…" he spoke quietly, still focussed on what he was doing and not wanting to breathe germs and stuff all over the wound he was supposed to be methodically cleaning. "Y'know…I think by this point it's safe to assume at least one of us gives a shit about the other, however misguided that might be…and it doesn't appear that we're wanting to go our separate ways with wild abandon, otherwise I wouldn't be kneeling over you cleaning your fuckin' chest…"  
  
Lars didn't really know where he was going with these musings, but he felt he should at least give voice to them and let them do their own thing once they were out there. Honestly, he didn't even know if Billie was listening or had maybe dozed off – the frontman was quiet, not wincing, no noises of discomfort coming from him, and his head had rocked back, eyes closed. He continued anyway, even softer.  
  
"So are you just being a lonely fuckin' loser who wants some other lonely fuckin' loser to stay, so they can be losers together, laugh, cry, act like they're in a Lifetime movie and lick each other's wounds 'til they fall asleep?"  
  
It had been intended as a metaphor, but it obviously fit the situation. As he finished speaking, Lars dumped the third cotton wad, using a final one to blot Billie's chest dry, and prised open the first aid box. He unwrapped one of the smaller dressing packets, snipping off an adequate sized square, and taped it down over the wound. Well, fuck, wasn't he the male nurse? Straightening up, he dusted off his hands needlessly and looked at his work. He smirked and ruffled Billie's hair patronisingly. "There ya go."  
  
A beat, and he decided. Hand still at Billie's head, he bent down and pressed a brief kiss to the younger man's throat, right at the pulse point near his ear. Before he pulled back, he answered Billie's question properly with a murmur.  
  
"I'll stay."  
  
Then, he moved away, tidied the first aid kit back into its box, picked up all the things Billie had brought out and took them back into the bathroom.  
  
Billie's eyes remained closed until he heard water running in the bathroom, and then he stared after Lars, still feeling that soft kiss and even softer affirmative to a request he hadn't even been aware he was making. An incredulous little smile touched his lips.  
  
The drummer's acquiescence was unexpected, but no more so than anything else that had happened tonight. Why he even bothered being surprised by this time, he couldn't say. He couldn't predict Lars's reactions at all outside of the cloud of sex and anger. Now that that had dissipated, Billie was pretty much fumbling around in the dark and trying to listen to his instincts. Follow his heart, he supposed, which landed him squarely in the Lifetime movie territory the older man had mentioned.  
  
Fuck if it didn't complicate things enormously to understand that tonight's events had stemmed from him thinking with his heart rather than his head – or his dick – after all.  
  
The very idea of asking someone to 'go steady' at this age was laughable and yet it felt almost as if that was what he'd done, going by the mixture of nerves and giddiness that swirled in his stomach. He tried to remember the last time he'd felt like this, both anticipatory and scared to death of the possibilities, and the answer barrelled into him with the force of a freight train.  
  
Green Day had played at some college party and while packing their equipment after their set was done, a girl with incredible dark eyes had come up to him and asked if they had any records out. He hadn't let her leave until she'd given him her phone number.  
  
Billie had been eighteen and already involved with Mike, but Adrienne had utterly captivated him in that first meeting and he'd fallen for her, just like that. Knowing little more than her name, the way she moved, the sound of her voice…and something had tugged at his soul, speaking loudly.  
  
 _No. Nonono. Please tell me I didn't just do that with Lars. I'm not_ ready _for anything like that._ Only he had a nagging suspicion that he had done exactly that, and that it hadn't happened tonight, either, but in another city on a night years ago that he'd not been able to forget. _Fuck._  
  
Nevertheless, he smiled when Lars exited the bathroom, stretching in the chair and pushing the serious thoughts aside. The pull of the muscles under the wound made him wince and dispelled the last of the head fog. Billie nodded at the white square over the right side of his chest that formed a weird counterpart to the riot of colour in the car tattoo on the left.  
  
"I'd guess that bandaging me up qualifies as your half of the pathetic loser act." He flicked a mischievous gaze at the drummer, unable to resist teasing him. "Got any wounds you need me to lick?"  
  
Lars offered Billie a wan smile. "Hundreds. And I never said I was done."  
  
It was clear by his tone that right then his heart wasn't in the statement.  
  
After he'd put away the first aid box, the peroxide, the cotton pads and thrown the used pads into the trash, he'd washed his hands and splashed cold water onto his face. Dragging wet hands through his hair, fiddling with one of his earrings, he wasn't so much trying to tidy himself as he was trying to clear his head. Thoughts of James, thoughts of everything that had happened that night still clattered through his mind, and now he'd finished cleaning Billie's chest wound, he needed something else to keep the bad thoughts at bay.  
  
 _Is this a good idea? Should I even be here? Should I just go now? Have we made a huge fucking mistake? Have_ I _made a huge fucking mistake? How is this going to work, anyway – what about when we're both on tour, what about when one of us is on tour and the other is recording? What sort of future is that? Do we even have a future, or is this it? Tonight? Are we done after this? Do we go our separate ways? Can I even do that? With James I had safety, I had security, I knew where I stood, we both did…now I've only got Billie and I don't know fucking_ anything _. I don't know if he has kids, I don't know when his birthday is, I don't know if he likes Taco Bell, I don't know how old he is, I don't even know if this is going to last months, days or hours._  
  
The total lack of certainty, the total lack of any sort of control scared the hell out of Lars. He stared at himself in the mirror, reminding himself to breathe. He was starting to feel exactly how he did on the plane flying over to England last year…right before he ended up being dropped into hospital.  
  
 _Fucking hell, I don't think he needs me as much as I need him…_  
  
The barrage of thoughts was halted momentarily when he noticed a tiny red mark on his jaw, the last remaining smudge of blood that had escaped his slapdash cleaning. It was barely noticeable. A breath rolled shakily in and out of him, and he examined it, tilting his head up to the light. His immediate instinct had been to scrub it off. Now, though, he stared at it, touched the skin near it, and left it alone. There was no-one he had to hide it from anymore.  
  
So here he stood, in Billie's hotel room, not having bothered to dry his face before leaving the bathroom. Looking away from the younger man, he paced back and forth a few times, agitation bubbling to the surface as those same thoughts made themselves heard in a bewildering jumble. He glanced at the door now and then, eyes sharp and worried. After a few moments, he stopped in his tracks and closed his eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath. He kept out the sight of the world as he spoke.  
  
"Billie…could you do something for me?"  
  
One more deep breath, and he opened his eyes to look at Billie directly. His voice was oddly small and hushed.  
  
"Would you stop me thinking about all of this? Would you stop me thinking about him, please?"  
  
It seemed as though the Lars that he'd never intended Billie to see – the more vulnerable, the seemingly smaller, the _almost_ submissive Lars Ulrich that had appeared on James's abrupt arrival – wasn't quite ready to be put away yet.  
  
The instant the request was spoken, Billie was out of the chair and crossing the room, wrapping tattooed arms around Lars. He made a wheezing kind of sound when the drummer returned the hug, not from the strength of it but from the relief that he hadn't bolted. Billie's heart hammered with the vestiges of the panic that had stricken him as he'd seen how Lars had kept looking at the hotel room door.  
  
 _You can't just walk away like that, without even leaving me a phone number. I can't do it again._ He could not force out the words, though, and kissed the dark hair over the older man's ear instead. And then the shell of his ear, and the lobe, and suddenly he was trailing kisses along that jawline, smooth tonight, and while they remained light, swift presses of lips to skin the urgency grew as he tasted Lars.  
  
Billie pulled back for a moment, long enough to meet bewildered green eyes and murmur the name of their owner; then he captured the drummer's mouth, tongue pushing inside aggressively. He shifted to cup the back of Lars's head with one hand, the other remaining on his back, and deepened the kiss, his senses spinning with the vaguely coppery taste. Pouring everything he felt into each sweep of his tongue, every rhythmic movement of his lips. His confusion about where to go from here alongside his conviction that he wanted it to go somewhere. His regret that he'd had to be involved in the ending of Lars's relationship coupled with the freedom from guilt because they could both do this now without hurting anyone else. Every second of longing that he was only beginning to realise he'd experienced all this time, since Lars had first walked out on him. To go to James – no, to go to the _hope_ of James, not even the man himself yet at that point.  
  
The paralysing fear that nothing he could do would be enough to make Lars forget, even for the night, because the one thing he'd asked for was the same thing that Billie had so far failed to achieve. And the bittersweet knowledge that it would be better to find out now if he could not, before he got in any deeper. At least then…  
  
Unable to articulate even a fraction of the whirlwind spinning through his heart and mind, Billie wordlessly breathed all of it into Lars with his kiss. Then he withdrew just a little, moving his head back only far enough to see, and braced himself.   
  
Waiting for a response.  
  
Knees going from under him, Lars fell headlong into the overwhelming kiss, fell headlong into _Billie_. The arms around the younger man's waist tightened, hands gripping at warm skin in the absence of any clothing he could curl them into. He'd given up control of the situation the second those pleading words had passed his lips, before that even. Though, if he was honest with himself, the control hadn't been his to relinquish this time. Not since the cloakroom…no, not even since outside the hotel doors, when he'd stretched himself open against the awning pole before Billie and murmured something about a leash. Fuck, it really did seem like an age ago. No, this time the control belonged to no-one but Fate.  
  
The press of Billie's body, the urgency of his mouth took those hateful thoughts and pushed them out, down, away, and maybe it was only temporary and maybe he would never truly forget how badly he'd been burned by the one person he'd had an unshakeable love for for the better part of two decades, but right then it was a Godsend that Lars didn't even think he deserved. He moaned his desperate appreciation wetly into Billie's mouth, and when the frontman pulled back, a choked sob escaped him and he could manage nothing more than to just _look_ helplessly at his lover. _His lover._  
  
As if it knew its cue, his cell phone began buzzing in his pocket. His eyes wiped blank, dropping to a spot on Billie's chest, and after two rings his hand slid heavily from smooth skin to cold plastic as he pulled the phone out. Pulling free of Billie's arms, he tilted his head a little as he looked sideways through heavy-lidded, hazy green eyes at the handset he held aloft. Lips parting to allow his strained lungs to work, he looked at the name for a hideously long moment. _Kirk._ He raised the phone closer to him, and with a methodical calmness he pressed down the little button on top of the handset until the phone went silent. Then, after a pause, his eyes suddenly ignited with a distraught, immeasurable fury and his body twisted around as he hurled the object across the room with a hoarse scream. It bounced off the wall and clattered into stillness on the floor. Lars gave it one more moment of his attention, staring hatefully at it, before turning back to Billie and pulling himself into the frontman's chest.  
  
He swallowed hard, nuzzling against Billie's throat, breath coming in shallow pants. His eyes stung again, regret, shattering grief, defeat, gratitude, relief and the slightest kindling of something he was too overcome to name yet all swirling together in his stomach into nervous nausea that make his hands tremble. He felt totally raw and exposed and just for now it didn't matter, because Billie was right there pressed against him and neither of them were going anywhere.  
  
"You like Taco Bell, right?" he murmured shakily, nose still pressed against the hollow of Billie's throat. Then, a little quieter, "I'm sorry if I'm being a pussy…"  
  
Billie laughed quietly. "I thought we established that you were a pussy in the first ten minutes after we met, ya white wine drinker." He tightened his arms around the drummer, almost giddy at the way Lars tried to burrow into him. He'd thought his heart was going to stop when the phone had rung, but then Lars had done what he'd done and returned to Billie, pressing as close as humanly possible. It felt _good_ to be needed, to be let in far enough to be allowed to see this kind of openness.  
  
He nuzzled back, lips skating haphazardly over whatever skin or hair passed near his mouth. "Yeah, I like Taco Bell, bastardised Mexican food that it is. Fucking addictive stuff. Just don't tell my fans 'cause a lot of them seem to think I'm a vegetarian, and I'm not. I definitely eat meat."  
  
His wayward mind supplied an alternate definition for the last statement and with that thought burning through him, he began to back Lars towards the bed. Billie freed one hand and tipped the drummer's head up, lips meeting his in another, hungrier kiss that shifted awkwardly with their movement.  
  
He didn't care, merely continued kissing Lars even as the backs of his knees bumped into the mattress and Billie pressed him down, gentle but inexorable, and leaned down over him, mouths still fastened together. He would stop if Lars said to – but only then.


	5. Frantic In Your Soothing Arms

Billie broke the kiss at last, scattering swift, damp kisses across the older man's face as he undid his pants, fingers seeming to finally have caught the trick of the drummer's belt buckle. Once they were opened he left them alone a moment, resting on his elbows over Lars as he murmured directly into his ear.  
  
"I want to make you come."  
  
That was all he said; putting him on notice that it wasn't meant as a preliminary, nor was reciprocation expected. It was as simple as that, and also that complicated because every other orgasm Lars had had with Billie had been connected to James. _I want you to come for me._ Me _. No one else._  
  
He unbuttoned that shirt again until Lars lay exposed, his eyes conveying heat and reassurance, desire and affection and a little something more. Appreciating him on a purely physical level as well as the stronger, deeper emotions storming through him, stirred into full force by this raw vulnerability.  
  
Billie Joe stood between Lars's thighs and leaned down, mouth skimming over his chest, taking soft nibbles as he slowly slid farther down the muscled torso, going to his knees.  
  
The hairs on the back of Lars's neck stood up when Billie uttered those few calm words, an uncharacteristic warmth flooding his face and staining his cheeks. The kisses had calmed him, soothed him, settled his stomach in some ways and stirred it in others. He hadn't even really been aware that he was moving, not until he lay stretched over the bed, the sliding heat and sweetness of Billie's mouth holding his attention completely as he returned the powerful kiss. But those _words_ …heat bloomed across his chest, heart thrumming loud in his ears as he felt that mouth laying claim to little patches of his skin with wet, secret marks, descending, descending…  
  
This time…this time would be different. This time there was no agenda, on either part. This time there was no-one to get hurt. This time would be the most significant yet, maybe ever, because this would effectively seal the deal. No going back. He stared right back at the younger man, head raised from the bed, letting and watching his body be exposed in silence, almost in fascination. The radio continued to play quietly, Soundgarden's _Black Hole Sun_ rumbling darkly away in the background. Billie's hand splayed over his half-exposed hipbone, and his skin jumped at the touch, cock beginning to stir into life. Fuck, he wouldn't admit it, but he even had butterflies.  
  
A soft realisation faded into his mind. _This is it, and I'm okay with that. I'm more than okay. I want it. I want him, and I want him to know how I sound when I come and it's because of him. Him and him alone._  
  
Lars smoothed a hand slowly over Billie's shoulder, squeezing lightly. He breathed out a moan, body responding more and more to the frontman's attention. His eyes darkened a little, beginning to dilate as he let his head fall back.  
  
" _Fuckin' do it_ ," he murmured gutturally, back arching in anticipation.  
  
He muffled a laugh against Lars's abdomen. _Impatient bastard,_ he thought with amusement before totally ignoring the outburst. Billie continued his slow tasting, learning the flavour of Danish skin. He eased the open pants down and off as he reached the join between hip and thigh with his mouth, and once the only part of Lars that was not nude was his arms, still encased in shirt sleeves, Billie sat back on his heels and simply looked for a long moment at his lover.  
  
 _Lovers._ That was what this made them, truly this time and with everything that implied. His thumbs stroked the insides of the thighs spread for him, right up near the heavy balls hanging under a hardening cock, his palms pressing the legs even wider as his grip tightened and he guided the naked form closer to him and closer yet until the drummer's ass lay at the edge of the bed, all of him beautifully open.  
  
Then and only then, when a dark head lifted to pin him with a green gaze that was at once confused and pissed off by the delay tactics, did Billie bow his own head and take Lars's cock into his mouth. He maintained the eye contact as he explored another new taste, testing the feel, the weight and shape of the erection, judging how much he could comfortably take – and how much he would take anyway.  
  
Billie wanted it all and with that in mind, he tongued one last swirl around the cockhead and began to suck in earnest, ceaseless fingers caressing Lars's balls, ass, thighs as he swallowed him down.  
  
Lars had taken a breath to growl his impatience aloud, incredibly wary and even fearful of Those Bad Thoughts returning and needing those maddening, coy touches to take his erection and do terrible, dirty things to it. That breath left him in an exhaled, stuttering gasp as sensations battered him, one after the other, hands and lips and tongue and _heat_ colliding, whirling as one in his consciousness. His head fell back and he arched again, harder this time, heels of his palms pressing into the mattress and rubbing back and forth in agitation.  
  
"Ah…" he panted, mind attempting but not forming any semblance of words in those initial few seconds. Those initial few seconds when his cock began to disappear into Billie's mouth. Fucking _wow_.  
  
The way the younger man lavished attention on other sensitive areas, all heated and tight and electric to each touch, the way he used different amounts of pressure, in his fingertips and his tongue, on different areas of his body to the absolute fullest effect… _fuck_. It told the drummer that Billie was someone far more experienced in…well, in sucking dick than he'd ever encountered – certainly the greatest male-given blowjob he'd ever received, given how he'd received so few in his life – and would maybe even give _him_ a run for his money in terms of prowess. That'd be a test for another time, though.  
  
He was never one to be outdone, after all.  
  
"Fuck…that's really nice…" he breathed, eyes closed as his head rocked to one side, a wobbly giggle bubbling forth at his inarticulacy. The pit of his stomach burned, and he raised a hand to push through Billie's hair and cup the back of his head as it slowly began to bob up and down. He licked his lips, breath becoming slightly laboured. "Really…fuck…ah…"  
  
That shaky little laugh made Billie want to crow in victory, or perhaps do a silly dance, but he was kind of busy and wouldn't move for the world so he settled on an appreciative moan, knowing the vibrations would be felt.  
  
His caresses grew more intimate, fingers slipping in between asscheeks to find the most sensitive flesh. Not pressing inside, or even suggesting that he might; he didn't think that now was a good time to push that dramatic a role reversal. All he did was rub, long strokes that should send sparks right up Lars's spine. Nearly twenty years of practice had honed any natural talent he'd possessed into a finely-tuned ability, after all.  
  
Billie flicked a look up at the drummer's face, stomach swooping at the open pleasure displayed there. He made a quick decision, knowing what he did of Lars's sexuality, and eased off on the suction a little. Then, very, very carefully, he added the delicate scrape of teeth to each upswing, sheathing them as his nose neared the crisp curls of hair and then letting them touch skin again when he pulled back, almost to the tip.  
  
Conscious of the hand tightening in his hair and the small, choked sounds he could hear from Lars, Billie allowed a few more light presses of teeth and then covered them completely. He took as deep a breath as he could manage and relaxed his throat, then finally slid right down, lips forming a tight seal around the base of Lars's erection as he sucked for all he was worth, swallowing convulsively around the cockhead pressing heavily inside.  
  
 _Fuck!_ Lars hissed inwardly. Maybe outwardly too, he wasn't sure. Not like he was paying attention. Fingertips were teasing at his asshole and making him fucking _squirm_ , blind instinct drawing his legs even further apart and up, knees rising towards his chest to accommodate whatever Billie was planning to do. Not only that, but those teeth, so, so careful, a small, maddening increase of stimulation that made him choke on his cries. No, wasn't really paying attention to what he was saying right then.  
  
Then Billie's lips descended completely, throat muscles working tight around his cock, and he gasped. His eyes went wide, sparkling green finding some spot on the wall behind the bed as he arched, head pressing back hard into the mattress. Feeling no urge to silence himself, his mouth fell open, wanton moans spilling unchecked from his throat. Moans for _his fucking lover_. Moans for _Billie_. Later on he would wonder to himself if he was crying out louder for his own benefit, for theirs, or just because that's how damn good it felt. Right then, it felt like nothing but the latter.  
  
He tugged at the fistful of black hair warningly, hips twitching, feeling those initial waves begin to swell inside him.  
  
"Fuck…Billie…I…ah!" A high, wet sob interrupted him, and it took a few gasped breaths before he could continue. "I'm fucking…I…I'm gonna… _ah_!"  
  
Stumbling back into total incoherency, he could only breathe heavy and let out hoarse moans. Forcing his feet back onto the floor to steel himself against an orgasm that might just knock him clean off the bed, his toes curled, tightness grew in his balls and his hips began to buck more, falling into rhythm with his cries. Acute, pinpointed focus suddenly fell on the precise sensations around his cock; Billie swallowed once, twice, three times…  
  
" _Billie_ —!"  
  
Back cracking into an arch, heat erupted from the pit of Lars's stomach and he came, body shuddering violently with the sheer force of his orgasm ploughing into him. He tried to form words, tried to bring Billie's name out from the jumble of high-pitched almost-wails and strained gasps, but all effort just washed away as he spilled himself down the younger man's throat.  
  
Not much was left of him after that. Bits and pieces of Lars Ulrich lay leaden on the bed, chest heaving, vaguely wondering if he was too fucking old to have orgasms like that anymore. Reaching down, he clawed weakly, imploringly at Billie's shoulder.   
  
"C'mere…here…" he mumbled dazedly, feeling like he needed a body to tangle with so the rest of him didn't disappear too.  
  
At the skritch of needy fingers on his skin, Billie pulled off gently, intending to move to join Lars on the bed. But before he did, he abruptly fastened his mouth to a spot high up on the older man's inner thigh, sucking and biting at it until it flushed, dark red against the rest of the soft flesh. He didn't bite down hard enough to warrant getting the first aid kit out again; just enough to work up a bruise that would stick around for a while.  
  
To leave his mark.  
  
It also gave him a bit of breathing space to tell his libido to calm the fuck down, because watching and listening to Lars fall to pieces – _making_ him come like that, knowing that those incredible moans were his doing – had Billie fully fucking erect. That wasn't the point of this, though, and he willed calmness through his body as he released the bruised patch of skin and climbed onto the bed.  
  
He coaxed the drummer's limp form up farther until they could stretch out fully without dangling off the edge, slipping the open shirt off and tugging the now completely nude body into his arms, pressing a swift kiss to parted lips.  
  
"How're you doing, huh? You gonna live?"  
  
If his wide smile came off a touch smug, Billie figured he could be forgiven for that. Apparently he was, in fact, perfectly capable of making Lars forget that anyone and anything else existed. Of making himself forget, too, for that matter. At least for a little while.  
  
Billie kissed him, soft and sweet, rubbing his cheek briefly against the vague beginnings of five o'clock shadow before his eyes met green ones, the latter still slightly dazed. They had rather a lot of unfinished business yet and this seemed as good a place as any to start.  
  
"If there's anything you want to know, dude, go ahead and ask. I'll do my best to answer."  
  
"Well, first off…" Lars paused, clearing his throat and licking his lips, voice a little rough. He spoke slower than usual, the last embers of his orgasm still stumbling giddily through him. "…I gotta ask you, are you fucking happy? I nearly snapped my fucking spine doing that, then this old man wouldn't have been any use to you. So I hope you're happy and smug enough about that…"  
  
His thigh throbbed a little, a little twinge of indignant pain in a sensitive spot, setting off a little synapse in his brain that he hadn't even registered it happening, that it felt nice and that it stirred a little flicker of warmth in his stomach, deeper than lust, and that he kind of wanted to show it off – of course, its positioning made that impossible, even onstage when stripped down to his shorts. And that he would have to get Billie back for it.  
  
For now, though, he settled for draping an arm over the younger man's shoulder, tilting his head and nipping at the soft flesh just under his chin. "There's a lot we should probably know about each other by now, right?" he murmured.  
  
The questions that had stampeded through his mind earlier, about age, family, birthdays, all seemed kind of insignificant right then. Not truly important. Perhaps it was because he wasn't panicking, or perhaps it was because he'd seen and processed the tattoos on Billie's arms – Adrienne, Joseph, some building blocks, a photostrip…perhaps it was because although Billie looked young, when he smiled, little creases formed by his eyes, almost unnoticeable lines, and there were the few details that had been given on his and Mike's relationship – the duration of it, specifically – that conveyed Lars's status to be not that of a cradle robber as he'd initially dreaded. Besides, there was far too much experience in those lips, those hands and that tongue for Billie to be that young.  
  
Speaking of lips and tongue, while those thoughts were ticking away, Lars had raised his head and was now kissing his lover, slow and lazy and luxurious. No force behind it at all, just the gentle press of lips against lips, tongues gliding unhurriedly together, and soft little noises of satisfaction. Probably one of the most romantic ( _sappy_ ) kisses he'd ever initiated, certainly with Billie. As it ended, he smiled against the younger man's mouth. May as well ask _something_.  
  
"I don't have to buy you a gift you won't use anytime soon, do I?"  
  
 _I could get used to being kissed like this,_ Billie thought idly, and in that lay something really big that wasn't quite as scary as it had been, if not something he felt ready to tackle head-on just yet. He giggled at the mention of a gift.  
  
"Hell, no. The last thing I need is more shit I don't need." It had sounded slightly more logical in his head and he let out more giggles, the high-pitched mirth making him sound much younger than he was. "Fuck, and you have like, less than ten years on me so don't go calling people old. How can I be the voice of disaffected teenagers everywhere if I'm old?"  
  
He pulled Lars in for another kiss, sighing a little at his taste. There was this bubble of pure giddiness sitting in his midsection, leaking into his bloodstream, colouring everything. It had been born of the drummer's careful cleaning of Billie's chest; his agreement to stay; his vulnerability and plea for help; his uninhibited responses. That kiss. Everything added up to the two of them here together, tangled in a sweet embrace where for the first time since they'd met, Billie felt like they were truly equals. Just two people caught in a strange situation with feelings they had never expected to develop.  
  
There were still a lot of obstacles – a lot of things they didn't know about each other, as Lars had said. Other people who would need to be included in this new equation. An explanation about Adrienne and how that would work, what effects it would have on this relationship, for a relationship was what it was now, or at least what it was becoming.  
  
Billie withdrew after one more achingly tender press of lips, his eyelashes fluttering open to regard Lars as he spoke. Maybe it was too early to say this, but he had been honest with this man about everything right from the beginning and it wasn't a track record he wanted to break now. "I know we have all kinds of shit to learn here and that things are kind of fucked up, but…I wanted you to know, that I am. Happy."  
  
"Fuck, I should hope so…I'd hate to think how much of this sappy shit we'd have to spout before you were," Lars drawled, familiar smirk tugging at his lips. He pushed himself up on one elbow, smoothing his palm down Billie's arm to grasp his hand. Raising it aloft, he pulled the wrist to his mouth and pressed kisses along the tattooed skin, slowly trailing them across the muscle, up towards the shoulder. He continued softly between kisses, looking sideways at Billie through a heavy-lidded, soft green glow. "Good…that's really…really…good…and the fact that…I'm kissing your arm…like I'm Gomez…from _The Addams Family_ …must mean I'm…pretty happy too, _ja_?"  
  
As he held onto Billie's hand, he felt the smooth glide of metal around one of the other man's fingers – the wedding band. He paused only for a millisecond on noticing it, dragging moist lips over a rounded shoulder.  
  
"I wasn't lying, you know. Earlier," he murmured, voice just beyond a whisper. He felt he should speak what he felt now, before…before morning came, perhaps, before the moment was gone, and all those other clichés. Maybe it was just before Uli faded back again and the snarky, arrogant, sardonic Lars would sneer at himself for such thoughts. "I do want you. More than that, I do need you. More than I did before. So…if we're really going to do this…" He trailed off, finishing the sentence in his head.   
  
_Don't ever do what James did to me. Because I don't think I could fucking deal with that so well again._  
  
He'd had no intention of saying that aloud, ever. It was one fearful, dark little truth that he didn't ever have to want to confront, to voice, to acknowledge. Not wanting to leave his words hanging there, he bent closer, dipped his head and drew his nose up along the edge of Billie's ear, taking the lobe into his teeth, nibbling and sucking lightly. Face burying into spiky black hair, he dropped kisses onto the side of his lover's neck, into the downy wisps and along the curving tendon to the collarbone. He sort of hoped, as he shifted back onto his shoulder and tucked his nose into the hollow of Billie's throat, that that would suffice as an end to his sentence, because he didn't think what he actually said would convey much.  
  
"…Y'know?"  
  
"Yeah. Yeah, I know," Billie whispered, throat tight where Lars had tucked himself in close after those lingering, travelling kisses. He'd caught the fleeting hesitation at the feeling of his wedding band, and it made him realise that with the way James had ended things, Lars needed to know sooner rather than later that his inclusion in Billie's life wouldn't be mutually exclusive with Billie's marriage.  
  
Fingers wandering through longish hair, petting almost though he wouldn't have thought of it that way, he smiled at the memory behind his words. "When I was twenty-two, about to have my life changed in ways I could never have predicted, I was sat down and given a lecture about the separation of church and state and how I needed to apply that principle."  
  
Billie uttered a soft laugh. "I didn't know what the hell she was talking about, but by the time she was done talking I'd gotten it." He shifted to look at the drummer, one fingertip tracing lightly across Lars's lips as he continued, "Adrienne doesn't care who's President as long as she's still God. One of the many, many reasons I adore my wife beyond all reason, Lars, is because she made space in our life together for me to answer to the other half of my sexuality. I have the freedom to make my own decisions in that area.   
  
"That means that I have room for both of you with me. She'll know about you, and about how I feel. Can you handle that, do you think?"  
  
His stomach clenched in apprehension at the possibility that Lars could not. It was one thing to sneak around, no one ever the wiser, but to become involved with Billie also meant coming out, at least to a select group of people. And while Mike obviously knew now about Lars's bisexuality – probably Tré did, too, by this time – Adrienne would have to know as well. The drummer would be confronted with others who knew the truth besides his lover, and that was a lot to ask of a man who'd concealed his affair with James for the entirety of their time together.  
  
"Can I _handle_ it?" Lars echoed, a touch of incredulity in his tone. _Of course I can fucking handle it, what do you think…_  
  
His thought tailed off as he really thought about what Billie was saying. _Someone else is actually gonna know._  
  
If this had come years ago, it probably wouldn't have been that big a deal. C'mon, he was Lars fucking Ulrich. He was European, he was open-minded, and he was an inherent shit-disturber. And he'd longed to tell the world that he'd bagged James Hetfield, that they'd been banging happily away for years. Fuck, who wouldn't want to crow about that? At the very least, he'd wanted to tell Kirk – the guitarist was obviously easygoing, _modern_ enough to accept them. But he hadn't.  
  
Anyone with half a brain knew that the shit that would be kicked up over two tough, male, heavy metal musicians in the biggest metal band that ever existed had been, gasp, hold the front page, secretly fucking for years on end, would not be a deterrent against such behaviour in public – it'd only serve to encourage. Lars had tested the waters every now and then, usually with Kirk – that way he and James wouldn't even be put into the picture. A suggestive photo here, sticking his tongue down Kirk's throat there – testing for a reaction. And holy fuck, what a reaction. Kissgate. Even _Jason_ had lambasted them over it. It had been a huge deal, and sadly, most of what Lars heard about it had been strongly negative. _Do you want them to think you're fags?_ Yeah, maybe he fucking did. It had hurt to see that even in the nineties it was still such a fucking taboo. _How come Rob Halford got away with it? How come he wasn't burned at the fucking stake?_ Lars had thought bitterly on hearing that the Judas Priest frontman had come out. Later, he would realise that it was because of two things – one, everybody pretty much guessed Rob was gay by the time he announced it, and two – and we're right back around to the main point here – he wasn't fucking one of his bandmates.  
  
So, Lars had kept silent about his and James's relationship for a number of reasons – the knowledge that what they were doing would _not_ be accepted in the chest-beating world of heavy metal, especially so far back as the mid-eighties and right up until now, the common sense derived from knowing that, and, most importantly of all, at his lover's request. James had asked him, right after they had found themselves making out whilst not quite drunk enough to dismiss it. For the third time. _You know we can't tell anybody about this, don't you?_ Okay, it had been less of a request and more of a statement, but Lars had honoured it. Right through their marriages. Right up until today. Right up until it was over.  
  
He supposed with a vague sadness that no-one would ever know what they'd had for so many years. Not even Billie would truly know. How special it was, how grounded they'd kept one another, how long they'd lasted. How head over heels _in fucking love_ they'd been. No-one would know of its beauty.  
  
Falling headlong into a relationship that was so radically different, right down to its foundation…from Lars taking most of the role of top, to having an evidently incredible wife in the mix who would not only know about her husband's lover, but would actually _accept_ the relationship, let it continue unheeded…fuck.  
  
It would be…an adjustment. And that was an understatement.  
  
Lars suddenly had questions. A lot of questions. _What if I'm over your house and I wanna kiss you, or nip at your neck, am I gonna get chased around the garden with a rolling pin? What about your kids, what if one of them catches us making out? What about Christmas, or New Years? Oh God, am I gonna have to meet your mom?_  
  
Swallowing them down for fear of scaring the shit out of himself more than he already had, he stared down at a spot on Billie's neck, mind ticking over. Focussing, he realised his eyes had found the scar. _His_ scar. And then he was speaking, quiet and deliberate.  
  
"I don't want to have to lose three people that mean something to me in one year. I'm _not_ giving you up. There's nothing that could make me, now. So if you really think…" he chewed at the inside of his lip, raising his darkened, solemn eyes to meet Billie's. "If you really think your wife…Adrienne will be okay with this, then I'll handle it. Rest assured, I'll fuckin' handle it."  
  
 _I'm_ not _giving you up._ Billie's chest expanded with one sharp inhalation as that statement echoed in his head. _I'm_ not _giving you up._ The sheer relief of it, the pride, the swelling of emotion spun him dizzily and he pressed frantic little kisses to the drummer's face.  
  
"Thank you," he breathed against Lars's mouth before taking it in a wild kiss, all lips and tongue and rhythm.  
  
Adie would hand him his ass for having broken Mike's heart, but he believed that she would understand everything behind that. In fact, he suspected that she already understood more than either party involved had, in large part because she'd gotten the subtext behind that first night he'd spent with Lars.  
  
He hadn't told her any more than he'd told Mike, but his wife had comprehended the more complex aspects of his rebellion and had taken her own steps to deal with them. Not long after they'd normalised their own relationship, a pair of black, thigh-high stiletto boots had appeared in the back of their walk-in closet.  
  
She'd told him upfront that she wasn't comfortable with pain but she could do this much, and it had become a kind of homecoming ritual between them, re-establishing their primary bond when he had been away on the road. Because when Adrienne appeared wearing those boots, Billie Joe knew immediately that he'd be spending the night on his knees. Serving her and her alone in whatever way she demanded.  
  
He didn't think Lars really needed to know all that, though, and definitely not now in any case. It was enough that the drummer knew that Billie and Adie had an unconventional, beautiful relationship that wouldn't automatically exclude him.  
  
His full attention returned to the kiss as it intensified, urgency thrumming through his body before he backed off, belatedly remembering his decision to focus only on Lars's pleasure. Billie moved instead to the pierced ear lobe, sucking at the metal, grateful yet again to the tight pants he should probably take off sometime soon while he tried to bring his breathing back under control.  
  
"Thank you, Lars," he murmured again when he could do so with a steady enough voice. "That means a lot to me."  
  
Somewhat surprised by the intensity of the reaction, Lars fell into rhythm after a few moments, returning the kiss strongly and wondering vaguely if he'd perhaps underestimated Billie's feelings for him. The thought was a pleasant one, just as pleasant as the feeling of a warm, wet tongue swirling around his earring. He exhaled against the younger man's neck, feeling his heart stumble over itself at the words that reached his ear.  
  
A bright flame bloomed and flattened along Lars's spine, and he realised he wanted to mark him again, to seal what they had. He resisted the desire. They'd have time for that later. _Later. Holy fuck, there is going to be a later. I_ can _mark him again, maybe in a week, maybe in a month, maybe on some long weekend away in Hawaii, where it's too hot and sweaty to do anything but laze around in a private villa and have sex…there's going to be a later. Wow, that's fucking insane. This whole thing is fucking insane – a perky little pop-punk frontman and a grouchy fuckin' heavy metal drummer? What the fuck? I feel like we could make out live onstage at the Superbowl and nobody would think it meant anything. It's all fucking crazy and I love it._  
  
Going over those last two sentences in his head, he voiced them, murmuring against Billie's jawbone. He couldn't lie, it was a turn on; and maybe not something as large as the Superbowl, but maybe on a red carpet, or some fucking dull Hollywood 'party'. Stir shit up, like the old days. He also contemplated telling his bandmates, at the very least Kirk. Maybe his dad. It wouldn't be a big deal for either of them. But whatever. Those were all thoughts for another day. Tonight had been mentally and physically exhausting enough – he was all spent of meaningful decisions.  
  
Dragging his knuckles down Billie's chest, he traced a sweeping line around to his waist, then his hip, then his bellybutton, fingers settling on the waistband of the other man's pants for a moment. Eyes dropping between them, tongue poking out to cover his top lip, he unfastened the fly and eased the pants down awkwardly, not letting Billie move away. He sat up to peel them from his lover's legs, dropping them to the floor and bending to press a wet kiss into the freshly exposed happy trail, before clambering up the bed and pulling Billie under the covers with him. He smiled, tugging the lithe body into him and tucking the spiky head under his chin.  
  
"I still owe you a good morning fuck, you remember that, right?" he purred contentedly, fingertips trailing slowly up and down the curve of the younger man's side.  
  
Billie laughed at the reminder. He angled his now nude body against Lars so that the drummer couldn't possibly miss that he was half-hard and murmured huskily, "I'm gonna hold you to that."  
  
He thought of what Lars had said about the Superbowl and grinned. "I'm hurt that you've already forgotten that you stuck your tongue down my throat and grabbed my crotch at the party tonight." Billie nuzzled his jaw briefly, still smiling. "And that was after I'd kissed like four hundred people. So maybe not a venue quite that spectacular, and not until things have smoothed out with the other people in our lives, but yeah." He pulled back, eyes hot as they found Lars's. "Once that's all clear, feel free to tongue-fuck me in public all you want. I'm all about pushing people's buttons."  
  
He wondered if Lars had any idea how much of a turn on Billie found that to be, the concept of being claimed in front of an audience that didn't know what they were really seeing; the fact that it would create spectacle and be confrontational was just a bonus. Then again, the way his cock had twitched as he'd made the offer was probably a big clue.  
  
Giggling softly, he snuggled into the older man, content to ignore the desire swirling sluggishly through his system in favour of sleep because he would have the chance to satisfy it later. A warm rush accompanied that realisation: there would be a tomorrow, and a next day, and a next week. Lars would still be there in the morning, and Billie felt comfortable enough – connected enough – to trust in that. It was a good feeling.  
  
"G'night, Lars. Just shove me onto my own side if you get too hot. I'm a clingy fucker when I'm asleep," he sighed against warm skin, eyes slipping closed.  
  
 _Oh wow, maybe having two people get together who enjoy fucking with perceptions to that degree isn't such a good idea,_ Lars thought, devilishly gleeful at all the scenarios that sprung up in his head at Billie's consent. _He_ was going to hold Billie to that.   
  
As they settled, the drummer thought back to first setting eyes on this _sassy_ young man. Love at first sight? Hardly. He'd been driven to pinning Billie back in that booth, all bristling temper and heated rage, by nothing but suffocating thoughts of James and a desire to get away from them. It hadn't really worked. The fact that he'd gone scurrying off to HQ at the news that his absent lover had called was a testament to that. He honestly believed that if Billie hadn't walked into that bar that night, he probably would have ended up fucking some other guy. It was the honest truth.  
  
But Billie _had_ walked into that bar. He _had_ sat down nearby, he _had_ followed Lars into the booth and he _had_ breathlessly told him of a motel room across the street with their names on it. And later on, Lars had curled around him, the frontman had pressed back into his compact form beneath starchy sheets and, though he hadn't realised it at the time, it changed _everything_.  
  
Destiny? Possibly. If you wanted to get fruity about it.  
  
He pulled his head back, tilting it, to look at the younger man's face, the curve of his closed eyes, the long eyelashes against pale cheeks. An affectionate smirk twitched the corner of his mouth, before his head settled back down into the thick, bird's nest hair. Waiting a little while until he thought Billie had headed far enough towards the realms of sleep that he might not hear, Lars thought about what he had said about shoving him away.  
  
"Yeah," he murmured, hand settling on Billie's hip and tugging him just a fraction closer. "I prob'ly won't."  
  
Letting his eyes slide shut, he listened to the radio's quiet hum – playing out Deep Purple's _Burn_ , how perfectly inappropriate – and tapped out the drum track in his head.  
  
His descent into sleep was so quick, he didn't even feel it coming.  
  
Insistent knocking forced Billie Joe from the cocoon of sleep and he disentangled his limbs, silencing his lover's mostly-asleep wordless protests with a kiss before sliding out of the bed and yanking on his pants on the way to the door. Peering through the viewfinder, he pulled the zipper up enough so that he wasn't exposing himself and didn't bother with anything else, not for this visitor.  
  
Billie opened the door partway, angling it so that he could have a conversation but the room wasn't visible. "What's up, Tré? Did something happen? I didn't get any phone calls."  
  
"Nah, nothing like that, dude. No emergencies. I got Rob to change our flights and Mike's checking out for him and I right now, so I thought you should know to make sure you lock that connecting door. I left your arrangements alone so you still got until tomorrow." His eyes flickered to the gauze pad taped to Billie's chest. "I also wanted to see how you were doing."  
  
Guilt struck at that, knowing that Tré had spent the night caring for Mike. "How is he? Is he all right?"  
  
Tré sighed. "He's hurting, Billie, I won't lie, but…not the way I would have expected, you know? It's not like when Ana left. I don't know, maybe somewhere along the way you guys turned into friends and s'just that neither of you noticed." He glanced around. "We really shouldn't be talking about this in the hallway."  
  
"Um," was all Billie managed, casting an involuntary glance over his shoulder to the room's other occupant. Blue eyes widened incredulously.  
  
" _He's_ in there? Jesus fucking Christ, Bill!" His drummer pushed the door open and ducked past him, easily enough with how scattered Billie was when he'd just woken up. He closed the door and caught Tré's arm before he reached the bed, where Lars was stirring now.  
  
"Tré, quit it. It's not like that, okay?"  
  
"It's—" he stopped short, words erased by whatever was showing in Billie's expression. "Aw, hell."  
  
Strong hands cupped his face as Tré's gaze bored into him. Billie could see in his peripheral vision that Lars had sat up, witnessing this exchange, but Billie was helpless to do anything about that and Tré deserved answers, too. He stared back, trying to be open.  
  
One corner of Tré's mouth lifted in a lopsided smile. "You went and fell for him, didn't you?"  
  
He squirmed mentally; for all of the hinting and the sappiness last night, he hadn't explicitly stated his feelings that way. There was no getting out of it now. "Yes."  
  
Tré sniffed melodramatically. "And all this time I thought you weren't into drummers. I'm hurt, Billie Joe."  
  
"Fuck off, Tré," he grinned, knees weakening with intense relief. This was all going to be fine; he wasn't going to lose his band over it. Wasn't going to lose his best friends, or the man with whom he was forging a new relationship.  
  
Billie sputtered as Tré landed a wet kiss on his mouth and turned to face the bed, measuring off Billie's body with one hand mid-chest height and the other high up on his thighs.  
  
"Listen up, Mr. Ulrich. When we start touring again, his front here needs to be presentable because he exposes most of it when he rubs his nipples before jacking off onstage. And his ass needs to be presentable because he drops trou." A considered pause. "But just the outside. You can fuck him as hard as you like."  
  
Billie's face was flaming as Tré finished off by flattening a palm over the left side of his chest, his voice becoming softer. "Hurt him here, though, and you'll answer to me." He grinned, face lighting up as he broke the tableau and ruffled Billie's already entirely fucked-up hair. "See you back in Oakland, dude. Nice meeting your boyfriend."  
  
With that he was gone. Billie locked the door and turned to face Lars, still blushing madly. A small smirk tugged at his lips. "Fucking drummers."  
  
 _There'd better be a goddamn motherfucking good reason why some fucking_ gedeknepper _is fucking beating the door down like there's a bomb in the fucking place…_  
  
That searing inner tirade was about the most active thing about Lars at first. Burying his head into the crook of his arm, he'd flopped onto his front as Billie opened the door. He'd then heard conversation, and grudgingly decided to give up on the last traces of his blissful sleep. He growled under his breath at the footsteps approaching the bed, vowing to commit murder if it was room service. Only it wasn't room service, as he found on sloping up, rubbing at his face. It was the other guy in Billie's band. Tré, right? Stood far too fucking close to the bed, considering he was stark naked beneath the sheets that crumpled around his waist.  
  
Lars would have given voice to this indignance – well, extreme anger segueing into outrage – after all, he didn't give a fuck who woke him up, just so long as it was no-one. But then the stocky, be-suited, ridiculously coiffed drummer before him came out with that question. _You fell for him, didn't you?_  
  
And the semi-naked, discombobulated, tattoo wrapped, violently coiffed frontman before him came out with that answer. _Yes._  
  
Well, fuck. If that didn't just strip him of any and all irritation and cynicism. He skritched almost in embarrassment at the back of his head, looking down, a sort of smug, sort of silly half-smile on his face. Then he was being addressed, being read the New Boyfriend (fuckin' hell, _boyfriend_ ) 411, as was fair enough. Hearing of Billie's onstage antics gave him something to grin about – along with Billie's subsequent beetroot complexion – and he didn't doubt the sincerity of the other drummer when he placed a strong hand over Billie's chest and uttered the corniest of older brother-type clichés.  
  
Once they were alone again, and his still flushed lover had turned back towards him, he stretched, smirking. "Fucking exhibitionist frontmen," he returned, arching an eyebrow. He rubbed more sleep from his eyes, muttering half to himself. "Fucker better not pull anything like that again, I'm not responsible for what I do if someone wakes me up early…"  
  
He sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck, then beckoned Billie back towards the bed. Heavy lidded green eyes travelled up the lean body approaching him, warmth unfurling from them, and he rested back on the heels of his palms. He tipped his head to one side.  
  
"Fell for me, huh?" he drawled, his eyes saying coyness and his lips reading smugness.  
  
Billie's first impulse was to snap out a very mature, _Shut up!_ However, just because Tré had descended into the schoolyard tactic of basically telling one's object of desire that his friend likes him, didn't mean Billie had to follow him (at least this time). He settled for wrinkling his nose and addressing an earlier remark.  
  
"M'not so much of an exhibitionist these days. You should be glad that I don't strip down to a thong anymore. Just me, a mic and teeny-tiny underwear, dude, you can't hide a fucking thing. If it's a cold night when your balls are trying to climb into your body cavity, the first twenty rows know all about it," he laughed, thumbs hooking into the undone waistband of his pants as he stopped in front of the bed, eyes sparkling mischievously. "At least when I stripped to skin I was usually wearing a guitar."  
  
No guitar was in sight now as Billie pushed the garment down, stepping out of the legs delicately and crawling onto the bed, into Lars's arms. He smirked at the vague surprise in that green gaze. "Ever been naked in Madison Square Gardens?"  
  
Billie didn't wait for an answer, reaching to kiss the drummer and then nuzzle him, nose buried against his neck. He felt just a little less vulnerable with the lack of eye contact while he fumbled through the next part of what he wanted to say.  
  
"About the…about the falling thing, I…fuck. I did, I have, I do have—" he halted, finding it extremely fucking difficult to verbalise properly. He took a deep breath, almost shuddery, and finally spit it out in a whisper.  
  
"I care about you, Lars, and it didn't start tonight. I've thought about you a lot since that first time, especially once, well, everything healed except this." He touched his throat, fingertips gliding over the familiar bump of the scar, and huffed a tiny laugh at his own fear. "I guess I thought you should know that."   
  
He stroked a hand down the older man's back, vastly reassured by the lack of tension in Lars's body but not feeling brave enough to unhide his face after a confession like that. Still, he felt better for having said it – having been honest about it – and if it wasn't entirely reciprocated, that was okay because the drummer was here, in this bed, and he'd already told Billie that he wasn't willing to give him up. That was enough and indeed, more than he had expected. Most people didn't tumble headlong the way he did.  
  
He let out another laugh, one less strained-sounding. "And Tré is just…Tré. I've known the guy for like seventeen years and I still can't explain him any better than that. He does usually respect my lack of enthusiasm for mornings, though, so you can probably refrain from murdering him."  
  
Lars felt a bubble swell in his chest, a giddy thing that insistently tugged a smirk from his lips at Billie's starkly honest confession. Though his eyebrows did raise a little.  
  
 _Care about me? Excuse me if I find that a little hard to believe, being Lars 'fucking cunt' Ulrich and all,_ a wry little voice said in the back of his head. For all his ingrained pessimism, though, he couldn't fault Billie's sincerity. Fuck, or his bravery, for that matter. Despite the fact that the frontman appeared to be trying to burrow into Lars's throat, it took balls to say what he had said. It almost made the drummer feel a little guilty for not feeling quite the same intensity for Billie.   
  
"It's been three years, hasn't it?" he mused quietly, forehead creasing with a slight frown of thought. Billie nodded against him. Three years since that motel room. Three years since this all began.  
  
Lars had morosely wished, at some point during the previous long night, that James had told him of his feelings and intentions before he'd gone into rehab. Looking back on it now, he rescinded that wish. Without James's absence, Lars would not have been quite so miserable and drinking alone in a seedy San Francisco bar. And thusly, he wouldn't have met Billie. It seemed now, though last night had been in turn incredibly painful and painfully incredible, everything had happened for a reason. Everything happened so Lars Ulrich and Billie Joe Armstrong could be all wrapped up together in a swanky Los Angeles hotel room bed. _Fucking hell, I'm sounding like Phil Towle one minute, then I'm fucking sounding like Quirk in the next. Maybe I should become a Buddhist._  
  
The near future, at the very least, was going to be difficult. Lars knew that. There was The Talk with James, which he would never, ever look forward to (who would?). There was the fact that Metallica still had five more dates to roll out on the Madly In Anger tour. There was going home to an empty house. Then, beyond that, they were two musicians, with albums to record, tours to perform, and careers to think about. Two wildly different bands, with the likelihood of them appearing together at a festival again, or even having their lengthy tours cross paths, equivalent to that of Cliff Burton dropping by and smoking a joint with them. There was no getting away from it, this relationship was going to be kind of tricky.  
  
But, as Lars bent his head to press a number of sweet, sleepy kisses to Billie's waiting lips, he concluded it didn't really matter. The point was, the key, base thing that could so easily be overlooked in favour of focussing on the negative, was that there _was_ a future. To add to that, having times like this to look forward to would make it all worth it.  
  
For Lars, it wasn't love. L-O-V-E, that four letter word that meant so very much. But that didn't mean it never would be.  
  
Callused fingertips dragging down a milky torso, Lars nudged at his lover's ear with his nose. "I'm looking forward to this." After a pause, he decided to give Billie something a little more substantial. "I'm looking forward to falling for you, I guess you could say. And…" he continued, softer. "…you can call me Uli, if you want."  
  
With that, the drummer pressed Billie back down to the mattress, his free hand drifting down to begin to stroke slowly, lightly at the younger man's awakening cock. His mouth fell to the skin just below Billie's collarbone, catching the heat in those hazel eyes before setting his teeth against the flesh and nipping sharply. He felt Billie's breath hitch, making a growl roll unbidden from his throat. He pressed down a little harder on Billie's shoulder as his mouth and hand went to work.  
  
"Now…as we've got nothing better to do…and I don't have to ship out until tonight...I'm going to take your drummer up on his offer…" his grip tightened around his lover's erection as his voice grew more guttural, eliciting a soft groan. "And _fuck you as hard as I like_."  
  
 _The future, then. And everything it has to throw at us.  
_


End file.
